


the centre cannot hold

by missbecky



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Grieving, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 03:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6036553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a rainy Monday when Eggsy Unwin is killed in the line of duty. And it's a rainy Tuesday when Harry Hart starts to feel that there is something very wrong with the world now. As one tragic event after another unfolds, he becomes convinced that Eggsy was never meant to die. Somehow he has to put things right again and find a way to get Eggsy back. No matter what the cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the centre cannot hold

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags for this fic. There is character death here, and quite a lot of it, too, but there is a reason it's tagged as temporary.
> 
> With many thanks to [PreciousI](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PreciousI/works) for her help with London's geography.
> 
> The title of this fic comes from "The Second Coming", by Yeats: _Things fall apart/the centre cannot hold._

"Ain't you excited?" Eggsy asks.

Harry looks at him, hair tossed about by the wind, eyes alight with enthusiasm, and he can't help but smile. "Of course I am."

" 'cause you sure don't look it," Eggsy teases. "You'd think our first mission together would be pretty special."

"It is," Harry says honestly. "And I am very much looking forward to it."

Eggsy grins and shakes his head, then pops the last of his roll in his mouth. He leans back in his chair, shirt sleeves fluttering in the rising wind. Although it's still sunny out, the wind has been getting stronger all day and the temperature, not overly warm to begin with, is rapidly dropping. This is the last day they'll get to enjoy lunch in the back garden until spring.

All the more reason to linger, as far as Harry is concerned. He is always willing to take his time when it comes to Eggsy, cherishing every moment they get to spend together. Just four months ago he nearly died in front of a church in Kentucky; every time he looks in the mirror he sees the reminder stitched across his brow. Time is short and one must make the most of it.

It's a lesson he doesn't intend to forget.

A gust of wind nearly rips away his napkin, even though he set his fork on it as an anchor. Throughout the meal they've struggled to keep various items from being blown away, lending a certain adventure to Sunday lunch that is normally lacking. It's really not the best weather to be eating outside, but the sunshine was too irresistible. When Eggsy made the suggestion, Harry had been only too quick to jump on it.

He folds his napkin so it rests a little more securely beneath his fork. "I'd like to go over the plan one more time," he says.

Eggsy groans. "We already been over the plan," he says.

"I know," Harry starts to say. "But I think--"

"It's fine," Eggsy says. "We got this." He grins. "It's gonna be fucking great."

Harry doesn't smile back. He feels unaccountably nervous, for reasons he can't understand, let alone explain.

Certainly he's not worried on Eggsy's behalf. It's been four months since V-Day and in all that time Eggsy has never done anything to give him a cause for doubt. He is one of Kingsman's best and brightest, and Harry is very proud of him.

He's not worried about himself, either. He's been back in the field for a few weeks now, settling back into the old rhythms and patterns of a gentleman spy. He's not quite as fast as he used to be, and he's still prone to annoying headaches, but he is perfectly capable of doing his job.

It's the thought of finally getting this chance to work together with Eggsy. He wants everything to go smoothly. More than that, he needs the mission to be perfect. Anything less than that means he will probably not be partnered with Eggsy again. And that is unacceptable.

So tomorrow needs to go well. Everything needs to be done right.

Another gust of wind rattles the remnants of their lunch and cuts through the thin material of Harry's jumper.

"Fuck, it's freezing," Eggsy exclaims. "Whose idea was this, anyway?" He stands up, the wind making a complete mess of his hair. "Fuck this, let's go in."

****

An international spy agency doesn't exactly keep regular business hours, but even so, Sundays tend to be fairly quiet. This suits Harry perfectly well. He enjoys cooking a big Sunday lunch, attempting the crossword, and finding reasons to put off doing the cleaning. Eggsy usually plays video games or visits his mum and sister, before at last giving in and starting a load of laundry. Sundays are generally calm and domestic, and they happen to be Harry's favourite day of the week.

This Sunday is no different. Eggsy swears loudly at his game while Harry swears at the designers of this week's crossword. Eggsy throws a pile of laundry in the washer, jeans and socks and all those things that are not made of bulletproof fabric and thus require the Kingsman laundry facilities. Harry dusts the living room and front hallway before running out of steam, and only a kiss from Eggsy is enough to coax him to keep at it.

The weather gets progressively worse, making Harry grateful that JB is not here; these days the pug spends most of his time at the Unwin house, where there is always someone around to look after him. Having a dog is a wonderful thing, but it's hard to keep any kind of schedule when one finds oneself flying halfway around the world without any advance notice. It's also hard to take a dog out in bad weather and stay even remotely dry oneself.

It's raining by the time they make a light dinner, neither of them feeling particularly hungry after such a big lunch. Afterward they clean up, and it's while he's standing there loading the dishwasher that Harry remembers that they never did discuss tomorrow's mission again.

So they sit at the dining room table and go over it a couple more times. It's a fairly straightforward mission, as far as these things go. Their target, one Paul Dearing, has made it clear that he's willing to bankroll some of the numerous new terrorist groups that have sprung up in the wake of V-Day. Kingsman has decided not to let him do this.

Harry and Eggsy are meeting with Dearing to take an advance payment for some nasty work they've promised to do. Posing as an up-and-coming terrorist, Eggsy has been in contact with Dearing for a couple weeks now, always on video calls or by text. Tomorrow is their first face-to-face meeting.

The promised terrorism is a lie, of course. It's just bait to get that payment. No cash, naturally. Everything is digital in this day and age. Which works out perfectly for Kingsman, because they have tech of their own. So when Eggsy gives Dearing the bank account to send the money to, the little device hidden in Harry's tie pin will ensure that the entire contents of Dearing's account will be wired, not just the ten thousand pounds he's promised them. They'll be long gone by the time Dearing realises what's happened, and then all those terrorists he's promised money to can fight amongst themselves about who gets to kill him.

Altogether the whole thing should take no longer than an hour. The meeting is at noon; there's no reason why they won't be back home in time for dinner.

They're running through it a second time when Eggsy suddenly looks up at him with a sideways grin. "This turning you on as much as it is me?"

A little shocked, Harry takes a moment to think about it. And to his surprise, the answer is a decided yes.

Apparently there are unexpected side effects from working on the same mission as Eggsy.

He doesn't even need to say anything; Eggsy can see it on his face. That impudent grin gets a little wider. "You're thinkin' about it right now, ain't ya? Me in those tailored trousers, showing off the curve of me arse. You're gonna make sure you're behind me when we go down the steps at Dearing's place."

Of course he is, but up until two seconds ago Harry honestly thought he was only planning to do so out of a desire to protect Eggsy.

"And I'm thinkin' 'bout you," Eggsy says. "The way you're gonna smooth down your tie and activate the transmitter. Those beautiful hands. I'm thinkin' they should be on me."

"I think so too," Harry admits.

There's no more talk about the mission. They climb the stairs, shedding jumpers and undoing buttons. Eggsy kicks off his ridiculous winged trainers and leaves them forgotten on the landing. Harry presses him against the wall and kisses him until they're both breathless.

They move down the hall, pulling at each other's clothing. The moment Eggsy's top half is bared, Harry is touching him all over. He can't get enough of the feel of Eggsy's skin, the light dusting of hair on his chest, the moles sprinkled across his back. Eggsy wriggles in close, undoing Harry's trousers and reaching inside. His hand is warm on Harry's cock as he strokes.

Harry groans. He bends Eggsy backward over the bed, leaning across him as they go, Eggsy's mouth on his, wet and hot. They shed the last of their clothes and then they're naked, finally pressed together.

He can never get enough of this, these moments when everything else falls away and there is only Eggsy. He never thought it was possible to love someone this much, to feel so helpless beside them and yet so strong at the same time. It could almost frighten him, except that Harry is too grateful to have ever felt it at all.

They move together, Eggsy's eyes locked on his, Eggsy's hands on his back. Harry kisses him and breathes his name, and thinks that he's never been so happy.

****

The alarm goes off too early, the way it does every morning. Harry is awake instantly, the pertinent facts making themselves known. It's Monday. It's raining. And he and Eggsy are about to embark on their first mission together.

He sits up, carefully stretching so he doesn't pull anything in his back; he might be happily back in the field again, but he's definitely not getting any younger. He looks down at Eggsy, who is still curled up in a ball, eyes squeezed shut against the inevitable.

"Good morning, dearest," he says.

Eggsy makes an incoherent whining noise in the back of his throat.

"Time to get up," Harry says.

Eggsy whines again, this time at a higher pitch.

"Up, Gawain," he says, and he leans down to kiss Eggsy's cheek.

Eggsy cracks one eye open. "Do I haveta?"

"Aren't you excited? You would think our first mission together would be pretty special," Harry says mildly, as though it doesn't please the shit out of him to throw Eggsy's own words back at him.

"Not fair," Eggsy moans. He flops over onto his back, all four limbs spread out now, taking up half the king-size bed.

"I'll go make breakfast," Harry says. It's almost tradition by now; he's always the first one up, pushing himself past his reluctance to get out of bed. It's not that he's a morning person, far from it. Nor would he be one now if he had any say in the matter. But he is a Kingsman, and that means subordinating his own wishes to his duty.

And right now duty says they have to get going.

"If you're not downstairs in half an hour," he says as he slips into his dressing gown, "I will feed your breakfast to the neighbour's dog. And then I shall tell JB what he missed out on the next time we see him."

"Double not fair," Eggsy mutters. "Usin' JB like that. You're a cruel man, Harry Hart."

"Yes, I know," Harry says lightly. He pats Eggsy's blanket-covered ankle fondly as he walks past, then heads for the bathroom.

He might not be a morning person, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy them.

****

They have a quick, light breakfast, then take a Kingsman cab out to Brixton. The cab drops them off at a car park where they find their vehicle waiting for them. The car is a little too flash, a little too shiny, obviously bought with money made by illegal methods. Dearing thinks Eggsy lives in this area, so this is where they must begin. Financing terrorists is little more than a game to Dearing, but he does have _some_ common sense. Harry has no doubt that somewhere along the line, most likely where the Brixton road meets the A320, someone will start to follow them. With that in mind, they need to appear to have come from Brixton.

He wishes Eggsy had chosen a somewhat better location, though.

He lightly taps the bridge of his glasses, activating the feed. "Merlin, we're at the car park," he says. "Checking the vehicle now."

"Understood," Merlin replies in his ear.

It's extremely unlikely that anyone has tampered with the car, but he does a thorough inspection anyway, looking for bugs and bombs alike. One thing Harry learned early in his career at Kingsman was that spies don't grow old unless they demonstrate caution.

Everything checks out fine with the car, which is no more than what he expected. Their pistols are where they should be, too, in compartments hidden in the floor – naturally, they won't be allowed to bring weapons to the meeting with Dearing.

Of course Dearing doesn't know that as Kingsman agents, they _are_ the weapons. Plus they will have their umbrellas and lighters, and their collar stiffeners can double as blades. All of which should hold them in good stead until they can reach the car and their pistols, should it become necessary. Not that Harry expects it to be. Eggsy has worked hard to put this meeting together, and there is no reason why things shouldn't go smoothly. 

Traffic is atrocious, especially under the rain that hasn't let up since it started yesterday evening. As they sit behind a car that looks like it's only in one piece because of all the rust, Harry stifles a curse and glances over at Eggsy.

Eggsy sees, and looks back at him. He doesn't look nervous at all. His eyes are more blue than green today, although the cobalt blue tie he's wearing is probably why. His suit, like Harry's, is deliberately tailored to be just a little too big. The impression they want to give is new money made in a hurry – and spent in a hurry.

The traffic opens up, and they get underway again. "You should still be on time," Merlin says in his ear.

Harry nods.

"Might be better to make him wait a bit anyway," Eggsy offers. "Make him sweat a little."

It might, and then again it might not. People like Dearing are hard to judge, and Harry hasn't actually spoken to the man at all. He has absolutely no idea what Dearing will do if they arrive late.

"So," Eggsy says, and he leans in a little so he can put his hand on Harry's thigh. "I been working with Kay on that thing in Switzerland, you know?"

Yes, Harry knows. He's been insanely jealous, too, that someone else was partnered with Eggsy before he was. He knows that's not his fault, that he was still recovering from the gunshot that nearly claimed his life, but that hasn't made it any easier to bear.

"Well, as much fun as that's been," Eggsy says, "this is a million times better." He grins and punctuates it with a squeeze of Harry's leg. "Gettin' to work with you. _Finally._ "

Harry smiles back. "I'm very glad."

Right on schedule, a black car pulls out behind them as they make the turn onto the A320. Eggsy slouches down a little in his seat and adjusts the side mirror so he – and Merlin, through the glasses – can keep an eye on the car. Not that it's difficult to do, with all the traffic, and Harry again silently curses the weather.

Luck is with them, though. The rain has tapered off to a dreary mist by the time they reach Dearing's house in South Kensington. It's just five minutes past noon. The black car that's been behind them pulls into the long, curving driveway, too, although nobody gets out. Behind it, a black wrought iron gate slides closed, sealing them in.

The time for fun is over. Now they go to work. "Ready?" Harry asks quietly.

"Let's go be spies together," Eggsy says with a grin. He opens his door and steps out into the rainy afternoon.

****

The meeting with Dearing goes well. Eggsy handles most of it, letting Harry stand behind him, acting as the muscle, the bodyguard, and the driver all in one. Dearing, who has at least six men who fulfill these roles, barely even glances at Harry.

Which is fine. Being ignored gives Harry the chance to discreetly look around and take everything in. He notes that there is only one way in and out of the large, upstairs office where Dearing has chosen to do business. One of Dearing's "security detail" stands off to one side, hands clasped in front of him. Another hovers by the door, a tailored suit jacket not doing a very good job of hiding the gun in his shoulder holster.

When it comes time to make the transfer, Eggsy calmly recites the bank account number that Kingsman set up just for this purpose. It's an actual account, with a real history that can withstand quite a lot of scrutiny.

Harry reaches up and tugs lightly on his suit lapels, then smooths one hand down his tie. As his fingers brush over the tie pin, he presses on the underside, activating the transmitter that will send out the signal to override Dearing's network.

"Looking good," Merlin says quietly. "Transfer is complete." He sounds smugly satisfied.

And that's it. The job is done. Now all they need to do is leave.

They almost make it, too.

They're walking down the driveway toward their car when a shout goes up from the house behind them. Footsteps hurry across the wet pavement, and there is the unmistakable sound of a gun being drawn. Further down the driveway, from the black car still parked there, blocking their way out, two more men step out.

For a second their eyes meet. Harry sees no fear in Eggsy's eyes, only calm determination.

Then everything goes to hell.

Harry runs for their car so he can retrieve his pistol, using the Rainmaker as a temporary shield until he reaches the greater safety of the car. He quickly ducks behind it, getting out of the line of fire. His hands move on their own and his aim never falters. Bullets impact his suit, but don't harm him. Glass shatters around them, and still he keeps firing.

The shootout doesn't last long. These things never do. But to Harry each moment seems suspended, frozen in time. He sees everything with a terrible clarity that never becomes any easier, no matter how many times he does this.

And then as suddenly as it began, it's all over. Men lie dead on the driveway, blood mixing with the rain puddles. Harry rises slowly from his crouched position behind their car.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

Eggsy emerges from where he's been taking shelter on the other side of the car. "I'm fine," he says. There is broken glass in his hair, but he doesn't seem to be cut; bullets embedded in his suit, but he isn't shot.

"You need to get out of there," Merlin says. "Dearing's got more men on the way."

Their own car is riddled with bullets and the windscreen is shattered. They are blocked in too; they will have to use the black car that followed them here. One of the dead men will have the keys. Harry starts to walk toward the bodies.

Further up the driveway, one of the dead men sits up, very much alive. He is holding his gun, and it's aimed right at Harry.

Time goes funny again. He sees water glistening on the barrel of the gun. He sees that the man is dying, bleeding out from the multiple bullet wounds he's sustained.

Then Eggsy calls his name in warning. "Harry!"

The dying man jerks his head in Eggsy's direction. His arm moves that way, too. He fires, almost by accident, it seems.

Blood sprays, bright red against the grey day. Eggsy's head snaps back. He falls backward, arching through the mist to land on his back on the driveway. His eyes are still open.

Harry sees all this with that same, horrible clarity. He will never forget any of it.

He guns down the shooter without thought, until there is only one more bullet left and then he quickly pivots, checking each of the other fallen men for signs of life, ready to put them down should they stir. But none of them do. He is the only person left alive out here.

Slowly he walks over to the place where Eggsy lies. He stands there for a moment, looking down at the bullet hole in Eggsy's forehead. Something like this happened just four months ago –- but this is not Kentucky and there will be no miracles today.

"Harry." Merlin's voice is hushed.

He drops to his knees beside Eggsy's body. He doesn't feel the pain of impact, or the wetness from the blood and rain on the pavement. He reaches down and gathers Eggsy into his arms, careful not to let his head fall back.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," Merlin says.

He doesn't reply. He holds Eggsy close. He thinks he should be crying, maybe howling aloud with grief. Instead he scarcely feels anything at all. Where his heart should be there is nothing, only a vast, empty coldness.

It starts to rain again.

"I know you don't want to hear this," Merlin says, "but you need to get out of there now. Take him and leave."

 _I can't,_ Harry wants to say, but the words stick in his throat. He can't speak.

"Harry. They are coming and I can't stop them. If you don't want them to harm him any further, you need to take him and _go._ "

That thought gets through to him. No one can be allowed to hurt Eggsy. Not ever again.

Somehow he gets moving. He lays Eggsy back down, then stands up. He feels ancient, his bones made of glass, tendons stretched thin enough to snap. Every step across the driveway hurts.

He finds the keys, opens the car doors.

Eggsy is light in his arms. His eyes are open, beautiful and blue and unseeing. Rain washes over his face and darkens his hair. One of the bullets that was embedded in his suit drops to the ground and rolls a short distance away.

Harry sets him on the backseat, carefully arranging his limbs so he will be comfortable. He starts to back out of the car, then hesitates. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out with one hand and lightly strokes Eggsy's cheek. Shaking fingers hover above Eggsy's eyes, then he closes them forever. Gently, so gently.

"Harry, please," Merlin begs.

He manages to fold himself behind the wheel, though every muscle cries out in protest. His body wants to become a statue, to let the numbness take hold and take over. It hurts to move.

It will hurt even more to stop.

There is a remote control clipped to the visor above his head; he hits the button that will open the gate. He backs the car down the driveway and out onto the street. As he pulls away, he sees them coming from the house, men with radios, men with guns. Paul Dearing is in their midst, shouting angrily.

Harry drives away. He does not look back. He does not check the rearview mirror and look at Eggsy lying so pale and still on the backseat.

"Where are you going?" Merlin asks quietly.

He doesn't know. He doesn't care. Kingsman can't help him now. And Eggsy is beyond any help. What does it matter where he ends up?

He could go to his house in Stanhope Mews. _Their_ house, even though Eggsy never really moved in. He had never needed to; his things had always just been there. He had spent more time there than at the house where he officially lived with his mother and sister.

The thought of Michelle Unwin makes Harry close his eyes briefly. Once again he is going to have to deliver her the worst news possible. Once again he is going to have to be the angel of death.

Eggsy, his dear, beloved Eggsy, is –

No. _No._ He can't think about it. He doesn't dare. Not now.

The world starts to wash out in a grey, swimmy blur. London and the traffic and the rain and the horrible truth lying on the backseat recede into a merciful mist. He feels himself start to sway, and the steering wheel bumps his chest.

Harry reaches up and cold-bloodedly hits himself.

The blow rocks his head to one side. It hurts, too. He can taste blood, bright and coppery on his tongue. But it works. He blinks and the world is back in focus. He can think again.

"Merlin." His voice sounds unnatural in his ears.

"I'm here," comes the immediate response.

"I'm coming to you," he says. There are practical concerns to be faced now. It's a side of Kingsman he's fortunately never had to deal with before.

"Understood," Merlin says. His voice is rough; he's either been crying or is still at it.

Harry wonders, in a far off place, if Merlin cried when they thought _he_ was dead in front of that church.

****

Time gets funny after that. He ends up at HQ with no memory of how he got there. He parks the car in front of the old manor and turns the engine off. Rain patters lightly on the windscreen.

Merlin is standing on the steps beneath a Rainmaker, waiting on him. So are Kay and Percival. Not Lancelot, though.

Harry gets out of the car, noting with satisfaction that his hands are steady. Then he just stands in front of the open door, unsure what to do next. He feels like he's nearing the end of something. There is a darkness ahead of him, cracked earth where huge chasms await even a single misstep. He is leaving behind everything he ever knew.

"I'm so sorry," Merlin says. Harry blinks; he didn't see his friend approach.

"We can take it from here," Kay says.

Harry has no idea what that means, so he just nods.

Kay and Percival come forward. Rain slides coldly down the back of Harry's neck. Merlin holds out a hand. "Come inside, Harry."

He actually starts to go, but then Kay opens the rear door of the car, and Harry suddenly understands what he meant when he said, _we can take it from here._

"No!" he shouts. He shoves himself between Kay and the car.

No. They can't. No one can touch Eggsy now. He's the only one, he was always the only one, that's what Eggsy told him, that's what Eggsy used to say when he was looking up at Harry with those beautiful eyes.

"Harry, don't," Merlin says.

But he does. He has to.

Eggsy is heavy in his arms this time. He feels colder, too.

Harry carries him for the last time, up the steps and into the Kingsman manor. He thinks about that day in August when he carried Eggsy into their living room, Eggsy's legs wrapped around his waist, Eggsy's hands on his shoulders, Eggsy's eyes bright with laughter and love.

He stumbles, almost falls.

Inside the house two members of Medical are standing there with a gurney. The sight makes Harry recoil. He doesn't want to give Eggsy over to them, to that world of clinical impersonality. Eggsy doesn't deserve that.

A drop of rain rolls down his glasses. Eggsy grows heavier in his arms. The floor beneath him is webbed with cracks, ready to split open at any moment.

Merlin touches his shoulder. It's a light touch, barely felt through the wet wool of his suit, but it might as well be a fatal wound. Harry jerks back, and if he had a hand free he would cut Merlin down without hesitation.

"We'll give you a few minutes," Merlin says. He nods to the others, and they back away, silent and respectful.

Harry waits until he's alone in the great foyer of this house where he's spent over half his life. Then he slowly walks forward and lays Eggsy on the gurney.

It's still early; he's able to arrange Eggsy's limbs in a natural pose. With his eyes closed, he might just be asleep, pretending he didn't hear the alarm, about to whine with reluctance about having to get up.

He might. But the dark hole in his forehead says otherwise.

Harry touches Eggsy's cheek again. His hands are not steady now.

_this is the last time_

The words beat in time with his heart. This is the last time he will ever see Eggsy. This is the last time he will ever touch Eggsy. This is the last time he will ever lean down and press a soft kiss to Eggsy's lips.

These are the last words he will ever say to Eggsy.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I love you."

He rests his forehead on Eggsy's pale, cool brow. Around him the world shivers, barely holding itself together. He shudders with it, his glass bones wanting to splinter in two.

But the world stays in one piece. And so does he. It hurts, but he can endure the pain. It's the other pain, the one waiting to descend upon him, that he knows he won't be able to bear.

When Merlin returns, Harry is waiting for him, his back to the gurney.

Merlin glances at Eggsy, then looks back at him. "I'll take you home," he says.

"Thank you," Harry says politely. He is still a gentleman, after all.

****

They don't speak on the train ride to Savile Row. Harry sits perfectly still, hands in his lap, and doesn't think about the times -- too few, too few! -- when he sat here with Eggsy.

There is an old man in the shop, wandering around and complaining about everything. He looks Harry up and down, eyeing the ill-fitting suit, the drying bloodstain where the back of Eggsy's head rested, and his querulous words dry up.

At least the bullets aren't still in the suit. Merlin had picked them out on the way over.

Behind the counter Andrew gives him a sympathetic look. Harry nods, but a cold horror creeps over him. This is just the first of many, he realises. From everyone who knew about him and Eggsy, he can expect that same, pitying look.

It's still lightly raining outside. He follows Merlin into the Kingsman cab waiting for them. They pull away and Harry closes his eyes. He feels utterly exhausted all of a sudden.

As soon as he closes his eyes, though, he sees it all over again. The spray of blood. The way Eggsy's head snapped back. The loose lines of his body as he fell, already gone even before he hit the ground.

The cab comes to a halt and Harry's eyes fly open. He feels groggy, disoriented, like he's waking from an unwanted drugging. Has he slept? Was he actually selfish enough to fall asleep mere hours after Eggsy --

Merlin opens the door and gets out. Fumbling a little, Harry does the same. He blinks in surprise to see that it's almost dark out. It's much colder than it was this morning, too.

The cab pulls away, leaving them both standing there. It takes Harry a moment to comprehend that Merlin means to go inside with him. He feels a flash of irritation at that. He's a grown man. He's handled worse than this by himself before. He doesn't need Merlin or anyone else playing the nanny.

He finds his keys and unlocks the door. Merlin goes in first and then stops just inside the foyer, waiting on him.

Harry just stands there in the rain. He doesn't want to go in there, he realises. There is nothing for him in that house anymore. Nothing but echoing spaces and a floor that will crack beneath him when he tries to walk upon it.

And when that happens, he knows he will crack along with it.

But he can't keep standing here in the rain. Sooner or later he must go inside.

"Harry?" Merlin looks at him, holding the door for him. Merlin, his oldest and closest friend until Eggsy. The only person he can conceivably imagine being with at a time like this.

He goes in the house. It's like the whole terrible thing just happened. He feels the same brittle weakness inside, fault lines becoming more and more exposed. There is a distant, tearing pain with every step, as though he is leaving part of himself behind.

Merlin closes the door. "Have a hot shower," he says gently. "I'll make a cuppa, maybe something stronger."

Harry nods. More than two steps ahead is something he literally can't think about just yet. But a shower and a drink he can handle.

He starts up the stairs. On the landing he pauses. There, right where he left them last night, are Eggsy's shoes. Those ridiculous winged trainers that Harry once accused him of wearing just because he knew how much Harry hated them.

One of the shoes is on its side, a broken wing. The other is against the wall, right side up. Just waiting for its owner to slide a foot inside and take off running.

Harry stands there and feels the floor give way beneath him, silent and irrevocable.

He grabs for the bannister, clinging to it with all his strength. All the air rushes out of the room, leaving him bent over, one hand pressed to his chest.

He hears the first sound, but he doesn't recognise it. He knows he has never made a noise like that in his entire life. But it goes on and on, a horrible wailing that presses against his head and drops him to his knees.

The toppled shoe breaks his fall. He lands on it, tilts to one side, and then rights himself. He picks it up, this ugly winged thing, as the first sobs wrack through him.

Strong arms encircle him. Harry lets them hold him as he cries. They are not the ones he wants, though, because those arms are gone forever. Because Eggsy is dead. Eggsy is dead. Eggsy is dead.

****

He knows he's dreaming, because he's been here before. It's a warm, sunny morning in June, and he is walking down Savile Row with Eggsy.

The first thing he sees are those winged trainers, those terrible shoes that he wanted to throw in the bin the moment he first saw them on Eggsy's feet. Now, though, the sight of them makes something wrench painfully in his chest.

He looks up, and yes, there is Eggsy walking beside him. Wearing that gaudy black and yellow jacket, the white snapback. He's smirking a little, hands thrust in the pockets of his baggy jeans. He looks a bit tired, like someone who was drugged and tied to a set of train tracks as part of a loyalty test, someone who stayed up half the night learning how to make martinis and staring hungrily at the man who is supposed to be only his mentor.

More than anything Harry wants to throw his arms around Eggsy. He wants to stop walking, to keep them from reaching Kingsman. But he is powerless to do any of those things. He keeps on walking, his Rainmaker in one hand, Eggsy on his left.

Desperately he tries digging in his heels. _Stop_ , he thinks. _Stop!_ It's not too late yet. If he can keep Eggsy away from Kingsman, he can save him.

"You can't," Eggsy says.

Harry looks at him, confused.

"Some things can't be changed," Eggsy says. He doesn't look so brilliantly happy anymore. Now he looks almost sad. "But some things can."

"What do you mean?" Harry asks, and this time the words come easily. Yet his feet keep taking him forward, down Savile Row, toward the Kingsman shop. Valentine awaits inside, along with Chester King's betrayal. His head is starting to hurt, the scar on his forehead aching terribly.

He's terrified, he suddenly realises. He's afraid that he's going to wake up from this dream that wants to become a nightmare. But he will take the fear, and gladly. At least he can be with Eggsy here. Once he wakes up, he will never get to see Eggsy again, or talk to him.

"It'll be okay," Eggsy says with a bright smile, the one Harry always loved so much, partly because he was never able to smile like that himself, not even when he was young.

"Just remember what I told you. Some things you can change." Eggsy stops walking.

Harry tries to stop, too, but his traitorous feet keep going, taking him ever closer to the shop and the darkness within. _No!_ he tries to shout, but he can no longer speak. He can't reach for Eggsy, though he strains every muscle in his body.

"You can change it, Harry," Eggsy says.

He's getting too far ahead, in another moment he won't be able to see Eggsy anymore.

"I loved you too, you know," Eggsy says.

And then Eggsy is gone, behind him, in the past, reduced to a swirl of memory and dust. Harry walks up the steps to Kingsman, opens the door, and goes inside.

****

He wakes up slowly, fighting it every step of the way. With dogged persistence, the pertinent facts make themselves known. It's Tuesday. It's raining. And Eggsy is dead.

_I loved you too, you know._

The tears are instantaneous, scalding hot, slipping down to wet his pillow. It still seems unreal that Eggsy can be gone.

_You can change it, Harry._

He doesn't understand. Eggsy was right the first time. Some things cannot be changed, no matter how hard one might wish for them to. Some things –

A sound from downstairs startles him out of his grief. Instantly he's sitting up, throwing back the covers and listening intently.

The sound does not come again, but it doesn't need to. He heard it. And though he knows it can't be, it's not possible, it _can't_ be, he also knows that it must be Eggsy. There is no one else it could be. No one would dare enter his house. No one else has the key.

Yet not every guest is wanted, and not every visitor needs a key. Harry rolls toward his nightstand and opens the bottom drawer. Normally there is a pistol lying there, ready for the day when he might need it. Today, though, it is missing.

Badly frightened, Harry swiftly moves to the other side of the bed. He reaches beneath the mattress near the foot of the bed. And yes, there is Eggsy's pistol, neatly hidden away. Nothing so traditional as a nightstand for Eggsy, of course. Only under the mattress would do.

As he grabs hold of the gun, the sound from downstairs repeats itself. And again his heart initially leaps with joy. It's Eggsy, it must be! Yet again, he knows otherwise. It isn't Eggsy. It can't be.

But it's someone.

Feeling better now that he's armed -– but wondering with ever-increasing concern how and when he got into his pyjamas -– Harry moves silently through the hall and down the stairs. He pauses briefly on the landing, stopping only long enough to make sure that yes, Eggsy's shoes are gone, before he gets moving again.

Halfway down the bottom flight of stairs, he sees the truth. He lowers the gun as Merlin looks up in surprise from where he's setting two places at the dining room table.

The disappointment is crushing. And yet he knew better, didn't he? He always knew the truth. It was never going to be Eggsy. Because Eggsy is dead.

"Why are you still here?" he asks.

"Good morning to you, too," Merlin says. He's still in yesterday's clothes. Most likely he slept in the guest room. Or possibly on the couch. Or possibly he never slept at all. With him it's hard to tell.

Merlin nods at the gun. "Yours?"

"Of course not," Harry snaps, the mystery of his missing gun suddenly solved. "You took mine. Don't ever do that again, by the way."

"I wouldn't want to," Merlin says calmly.

Harry bites back his first response. He knows Merlin stayed overnight out of concern, and took his gun for the same reason, but it angers him all the same. He doesn't need anyone to look after him. He spent thirty years living alone in this house and only four months sharing it with Eggsy. It was harder to adjust to sharing this space than it will be to go back to the cold solitude.

"If you don't mind," he says, "I'd rather be alone right now."

"I know," Merlin replies. "That's why I'm staying put."

Harry glares at him. "Need I remind you that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself?"

"I'm perfectly aware of that," Merlin says. "But I'm still staying. Also, I'm making breakfast. Get dressed."

Harry glances down at his pyjamas. He doesn't remember getting into them, or going to bed. He doesn't remember much of anything, in point of fact, after arriving at the house yesterday.

He glances up the stairs, to the empty landing. The shoes, those horrible, precious winged shoes, are not there anymore.

"They're in your room," Merlin says quietly. "You wouldn't let go of them."

With anyone else it would be deeply humiliating. From Merlin, it's just there, accepted and unremarked upon. Harry nods and turns around. He heads upstairs, in no hurry to return to the bedroom where he now sleeps alone.

He's nearly to the top of the stairs when he suddenly stops. "Shit."

"What is it?" Merlin asks.

Harry gazes at the framed photographs lining the wall without actually seeing any of them. For a moment he genuinely thinks he might be sick.

Slowly he turns around. "I have to tell Michelle Unwin," he says.

Merlin's expression lightens just the tiniest bit. "Actually," he says, "you don't. Roxy already told her. Last night."

Harry stares. He can't comprehend what he just heard. "Roxy?"

Merlin nods. He stands between two of the chairs on the far side of the dining room table, thankfully neither one of which Eggsy used, or else Harry would have to ask him to move. "She loved Eggsy like a brother. And she loves you, too, Harry. Visiting Eggsy's mother was her way of trying to help."

He doesn't know what to say to that. He is immensely grateful to Roxy, but at the same time he is somewhat resentful. The news should have come from him. As horrible as it would have been, it was his obligation to tell her.

"I still need to see her," he says.

"I know," Merlin says. "Why do you think I'm still here?"

Harry stares at him. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

"I'm going with you," Merlin says quietly.

It has never been easy to see Michelle Unwin; she doesn't trust him, or even like him. Now she will hate him -– and Harry can't blame her for it.

"Does she know about Kingsman?" he asks.

Merlin shakes his head. "Roxy made up a story. I'll fill you in on the way."

It's probably for the best, Harry decides. As long as Michelle believes Eggsy died well, and without suffering, that is all that matters.

"Thank you," he says.

Merlin nods. "Go take a shower and get dressed," he says gently.

Harry looks at him for a long moment, then does as he's told.

****

He draws the line at eating breakfast, however. He isn't remotely hungry. More to the point, he knows he can't sit at that table where just two days ago he and Eggsy sat and had dinner, then discussed the Dearing mission.

Merlin doesn't say a word as he scrapes most of the food he cooked into the rubbish. Harry stands uselessly in his own living room and watches, feeling guilty as hell.

At the same time, though, there's a terrible relief. Merlin is here. Someone else is handling the mundane domestic details of life, all those things Harry can't even begin to think about just yet. Nothing is quite real to him yet. Even the house seems blurred out, the details muted and fuzzy, only his long familiarity with the spaces enabling him to move from room to room without falling.

When everything is cleared away, Merlin says, "Are you ready?"

Harry says, "What about the toast?"

That sorrowful expression lengthens Merlin's face again. "We had it last night," he says quietly.

His first reaction is white-hot fury. This is _Eggsy_ , his dear Eggsy, and they didn't even have the decency to wait for him.

But with his second breath he's actually grateful. He could not have sat there and calmly raised a glass to Eggsy's memory. It's better this way. He can drink himself blind later.

There is a horrible appeal to that idea.

"Thank you for letting me know," he says. Merlin was here all night, so he must have attended via hologram. He could ask who else was there, if anybody cried, what Arthur said -- but he doesn't really want to know.

Merlin nods and then waits, obviously giving him the chance to ask those very questions. But when the silence stretches out, thin and uneasy, Merlin takes control of the situation once more. "Right," he says. "Shall we go then? Are you ready?"

Of course he isn't. He will never be ready to face Michelle Unwin again. But he nods. "Yes."

****

The house where Michelle and Daisy Unwin live is not far. Most of the Kingsman agents live in the same area; Tristan's home is close enough to walk to.

There's no question of walking, though. Even if it wasn't still raining, the distance is just too far. Earlier this morning Merlin ordered a black cab for the trip; right on schedule, the car is there.

Harry climbs in with reluctance. He's not quite as shell-shocked as he was yesterday, and his brain is starting to function properly once again. Too soon he will be getting into a car like this so it can take him to Eggsy's funeral.

The thought makes him want to break down sobbing all over again.

He must make some kind of sound, or maybe his breath catches, because Merlin turns toward him. "Harry?"

He nods. He can't talk just yet.

The cab turns onto a quiet street lined with older houses. As it does, Harry happens to catch a glimpse of the time on the Bremont strapped to his wrist. It's 12:30. This time yesterday, Eggsy was just falling over dead.

There is no visible sign, no warning light or sound, but abruptly the world around him seems to _shift_ , an almost violent wrenching motion that leaves Harry breathless and dizzy. It's gone as swiftly as it came upon him, but in its wake he is almost gasping. He is overwhelmed with the sensation of _wrong_.

Something has happened. Something fundamental has changed. He doesn't know what it is. He only knows that he can feel it all around him.

"Harry? Are you all right?" Merlin sounds worried.

He looks over at his friend. Merlin looks no different than he did this morning, or even five minutes ago as they sat at the traffic light waiting to turn onto this street. And yet he is different now. Everything is different, and Harry can't say why or even how it happened. He just knows that it did.

"I'm fine," he says.

"We can do this some other time," Merlin suggests.

"No," Harry says firmly. It has to be now. He still doesn't understand what just happened, but he doesn't have time now to sit here and puzzle it out. They have arrived at the Unwin house.

There are two cars parked here already. Michelle's friends, probably, come to offer whatever comfort they can. Or possibly Eggsy's friends, Ryan and Jamal, have come by, although Harry isn't entirely sure how large a part of Eggsy's life they are now. He only met them once, and Eggsy hadn't mentioned them very often or hung out with them. Mostly they had seemed to figure in his former life, that drug-dealing, petty thief who grew up in the council estate with a chip on his shoulder and a desperate desire to be anywhere else.

The rain has tapered off to a dull drizzle by now. They don't even need their umbrellas as they walk up the driveway and knock on the front door. Behind them, the driver waits in the cab, the tinted windows rolled up so no one can see him.

The woman who answers the door is a stranger. Definitely one of Michelle's friends, then. Harry looks at her hostile expression and finds his courage faltering. This is wrong. He isn't supposed to be here. This isn't supposed to be happening.

Eggsy isn't supposed to be dead.

"We're here to see Mrs. Unwin," Merlin says. "May we come in?"

"Who're you, then?" demands the woman.

Merlin hesitates, clearly unsure how to answer that one. And while he's standing there, the silence growing ever more awkward, Daisy comes running up, wanting to see who's at the door. She sees Harry, lets out a cry of joy, and launches herself at his legs.

Without thinking about it, Harry reaches down and scoops her up. Michelle's friend makes a sound of dismay, but by then it's too late. Daisy is happily settled in Harry's arms.

Her weight, the smell of her baby shampoo, gives Harry the courage he needs. He looks at the gatekeeping friend. "I'm Eggsy's partner," he says. Present tense still, because he can't say _was_ just yet. Not so soon.

"Who is it?" Michelle herself appears then, in the entrance to the living room. She is very pale, and her eyes are red. Her hair hasn't been brushed. When she sees Harry standing there with Daisy in his arms, though, an angry red flush blotches her cheeks. "Get out," she says. She holds out her arms. "Daise, come here. Come to Mummy."

Daisy shifts unhappily, one arm wrapped around Harry's back. It's clear she doesn't want to go.

Harry would like to keep holding her, if only for the comforting warmth of her presence. But it would be cruel to deprive Michelle of her only remaining child, so Harry leans down and gently disentangles Daisy's grip on him. "Go to your mother," he encourages.

Daisy does so, but not without a resentful look.

She will not remember Eggsy, Harry realises. She's too young. She isn't forming memories yet, images to carry into childhood and beyond. All she will ever know of her big brother are photographs and stories told over and over until she thinks she knows him.

Harry blinks against the sudden sting of tears. He has to stop this, he thinks. 

He has to be stronger than this.

"Is there somewhere we could talk in private?" he asks.

Michelle glances at her friend still standing by the front door. She looks at Merlin, a man she's never met and doesn't know. Then she looks at Harry. "Yeah," she says.

They end up in Daisy's bedroom, where she can play with her toys and Michelle can keep an eye on her. She stands with her arms folded, her eyes bright with tears. "What do you want?"

"Only to tell you how sorry I am," Harry says.

"You should never have been with him," Michelle says. "You were never good for him."

 _No, I wasn't_ , Harry thinks.

"If there is anything I can do," he starts to say.

She takes a step closer to Daisy. "You can get out," she says. Her voice wavers, almost cracks. "You stay away from me and my daughter. You hear me? You stay away!"

Harry nods stiffly. He had hoped to see Eggsy's room, maybe sit on the bed where Eggsy hadn't slept in months. Most of his things are at Harry's house. He could offer to bring some of them here for Michelle.

But to what purpose? She obviously wants nothing to do with him, and Harry can't blame her. He has brought her nothing but death and pain; nothing he does now will ever undo that.

_But this is all wrong. This isn't supposed to be happening at all._

"What about JB?" he says.

"It's Daisy's dog now," Michelle says defiantly. "Eggsy said so."

Yes, it sounds like something Eggsy would say. Gifting his dog to his sister so she could have a pet, knowing that JB was better off in a house where people were here all day instead of playing spy and flying halfway around the world every other week.

There is nothing left to say then. He tries anyway. "I loved Eggsy very much," he says, and there it is, the first use of the past tense. He hates it, hates himself for saying it. "I would have done anything for him."

"Then you should've died for him," Michelle spits, and begins to cry.

She is more right than she will ever know. He is the one who should be dead. That bullet was meant for him. He is never going to forget that.

"If I could," he says softly, "I would."

He leaves her then. He goes downstairs and he walks out of that house for the last time.

All the way home he holds one hand over his eyes as he cries, blocking out the world. But nothing can stop him from hearing Daisy crying after him as he left, unable to understand why he wouldn't hold her again.

****

He doesn't cry at the funeral.

The rain has finally moved on, and the skies are clear. It's much colder, though, and over his best black suit Harry wears the thick black coat he once wore while he cut the ropes tying Eggsy to the train tracks.

He is polite and courteous as he accepts the condolences and sympathy that are his due now. Most of the men shake his hand. A few put a hand on his shoulder. Alistair holds onto his hand for longer than necessary, and looks him in the eye. No stranger to grief himself, he says, "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to let me know."

Harry thinks of James, and he nods. "Thank you."

Roxy is last to approach. She looks smaller than usual in spite of her high-heeled shoes. She rises onto her tiptoes so she can hug him. "How are you doing?"

"I wanted to thank you," Harry says, "for delivering the news to Michelle."

She nods. Her eyes are bloodshot, her makeup not quite hiding her pallor. "It was the least I could do," she says.

"It was very kind," Harry says. He doesn't like the way he sounds, so stiff and formally polite, but etiquette is all he has now. He once told Eggsy that a suit was a modern gentleman's armour, and if that's true, the rules of polite society are his shield. He will hide behind them for as long as he can.

Roxy puts a gloved hand on his arm. "Please come by," she says. "Any time. You don't even have to call. Just show up."

"Thank you," Harry says. He already knows he won't accept the invitation. She must surely know it, too -– but it's good of her to extend it, all the same.

He looks around. Most of the mourners have already left. Michelle walks away slowly, sobbing quietly in the arms of one of her friends. Ryan and Jamal have slunk off, shoulders high, hands thrust deep in their pockets. Arthur lingers near the edge of the cemetery, speaking to Kay and Tristan, her back to the fresh grave.

Only Merlin and Roxy linger, waiting for him. He can't think about them right now, though. He isn't ready to leave this place. He isn't ready to get started on the cold, empty life that stretches ahead of him.

He gazes at the headstone, already set in place thanks to the quiet influence of Kingsman. It's simple, an elegant grey marble slab engraved with all the necessary information. _Gary "Eggsy" Unwin. Sept 06, 1991 – Oct 19, 2015._

He was just one month past his twenty-fourth birthday.

Harry remembers that day in September. He had asked Eggsy what he wanted for his birthday, and Eggsy had just shrugged. "Don't need anything."

"It's not about what you need," Harry had replied. "It's your birthday. What do you _want?_ "

It had taken Eggsy some time to come up with anything. While he waited Harry had struggled to maintain his pleasant smile. All he had been able to think about was Eggsy growing up in that miserable flat where there was never enough money for frivolous things like birthday presents. That flat where anything he wanted for himself either had to be stolen or bought with drug money.

Harry had vowed then to get Eggsy a present every month. Gifts to make him feel loved and appreciated, presents to make up for all those years when there were none. But he hadn't. He forgot. October 6th came and went with no present, and now there will never be another chance.

That feeling of _wrong_ , that something is not right with the world, is still with him. He tried to sleep last night, stretched out on the couch, unable to face the empty bedroom upstairs. He had hoped he would dream of Eggsy again and get another chance to talk to him, to ask him what he had meant by, _You can change it, Harry._ But every time he closed his eyes he just saw Eggsy falling all over again, the bullet hole between his eyes. There had hardly been any blood.

He doesn't feel tired, though. Nor is he hungry or thirsty, although he hasn't touched any food, has barely drank anything. All he feels is that overwhelming sensation of being in the wrong place. Like a picture on a wall hanging crooked, just in need of a friendly push to right it again.

"This is all wrong," he says.

Merlin looks anxiously at the headstone, no doubt thinking Harry means the dates or that Eggsy's name is misspelled. When he sees nothing obvious, he turns back to Harry. "What do you mean?"

"This," Harry says. He gestures to the freshly turned earth at his feet. "All of this. It's wrong."

Merlin's eyes darken with sympathy. "You should go home and get some rest."

"I don't need any rest!" Harry snaps. He has never taken kindly to being coddled, and he will not have it now. "There is nothing wrong with me. But this…" He shakes his head. "Can't you feel it?"

"All I feel is cold," Merlin says. "And sad. We should go."

They might as well. There is nothing for him here. He's never been one to visit gravestones and hold imaginary conversations with the dead. Anything he has to say to Eggsy can be said at home, or on the train, or while tracking down an assassin. After all, he'll only be talking to himself.

"All right," he gives in.

They walk toward the cab that brought them, where the driver waits inside with the heater on. Roxy trails along uncertainly.

Harry stops in front of the car. He turns to Merlin and tries one more time. "You don't feel it? You don't feel anything different?"

Merlin and Roxy exchange a quick glance. "What should I be feeling?" Merlin asks.

It's pointless, Harry realises. They don't know. To them the world is just as it always was. A little duller, perhaps, a little more painful without Eggsy, but otherwise exactly as it should be.

"Nothing," he says. "It's nothing."

"Do you want me to come back with you?" Merlin offers. He's been at Harry's house ever since he first arrived, refusing to leave no matter how many times Harry told him he doesn't have to stay.

Harry shakes his head. He has to get used to living alone again. Merlin means well, but his presence will only make things worse. It's long been Harry's experience that the best way to deal with inevitable pain is to just grit one's teeth and get on with it.

"No, thank you," he says. "I'll be all right."

Merlin looks like he wants to protest, but instead he just nods. "All right. I'll call you later."

"That will be fine," Harry says. He can always ignore the call, say that he missed it because he was sleeping. That will please Merlin. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Roxy makes a faint exclamation. Merlin simply nods again. He's been there too, after all. Work is the best way to forget about grief. There is no time for tears when one is on the trail of an international crime lord.

Harry gets in the car and the driver pulls away. He closes his eyes and sinks back against the seat.

He doesn't open them again until the cab arrives at his house.

****

That night he finds himself standing in the office. He has no idea why he came in here.

After Kentucky he was in hospital for several weeks. Eggsy had told him not to worry about anything. "I'll take care of it," he had assured Harry. And he had been true to his word. That was when he had all but moved in here, on the pretext of needing to look after the place. From time to time he had sent Harry pictures from his phone, usually something silly designed to make him smile during a time when there had been precious little to smile about. There had been a picture of Eggsy in this room, holding a pair of scissors aimed at one of the newspaper headlines on the wall. _I've seen those home improvement shows. I think it's time for some redecorating. Don't worry. I got this._

Harry smiles a little to remember it, although tears sting his eyes.

"What did you mean?" he says. "How can I change it?"

There is no answer, of course. The newspapers stare back, the headlines frozen in their silent scream.

In this very room, Eggsy had watched him die. It must have been horrible, a trauma Harry can't imagine. Yet what had he seen, really? Valentine and the gun. Then what, a sudden jerking motion, and the summer sky overhead. He wouldn't have even seen any blood.

Harry wishes he were so lucky. The sight of Eggsy falling, already dead, is forever branded on his memory. The blood, the way Eggsy's arms swung up, the dull thud as he landed on his back.

The video from the church has been erased. Harry did it himself the first week he returned home with a still-aching scar and a new love in his heart. He had erased it without watching it, without even hesitating.

Would that he could do the same with the memory of Eggsy's death.

Slowly he walks around the desk and sits down. He swivels his chair so he's facing the armchair where Eggsy sat on his very first night here. Looking at him with such crestfallen hope when he was scolded for not asking permission to sit first. But then the way he had brightened all over at the thought of learning how to make a martini. _Yes, Harry!_

He supposes that was when the thing between them began in earnest, although for him it really started on that very first day, standing there in fitting room one while Eggsy mentioned _My Fair Lady._ That was when he first understood that he was falling for Eggsy, that it wasn't just a matter of being equally charmed by him and attracted to him.

The first time he had seen Eggsy after V-Day, he had been in hospital, doped up on painkillers and barely able to make sense of what was happening around him. When he saw Eggsy walk in, he had tried to apologise for his appalling behaviour in his downstairs loo, but he hadn't been able to get the words out. All he could say then was, _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._ And Eggsy had practically run the short distance to the bed, tears sparkling in his eyes. _Oh my God Harry, shut up would ya, I'm sorry, I never should've..._

Eggsy had knelt down beside the bed, and Harry had raised a shaky hand where an IV line was taped to a vein, cradling the back of his head. Eggsy had leaned over and kissed his stubbled cheek, and then bowed his forehead onto Harry's shoulder and wept.

He had closed his eyes then, too exhausted to stay awake any longer, finally feeling secure enough to sleep. When he woke up, Eggsy was still there, but something had changed between them. From then on they had looked at each other differently. They had simply known then, what had always been inevitable.

It's much the way he feels now. He has the same bone-deep _knowing_ , something that cannot be explained in rational words. Since Eggsy's death, the world has fundamentally changed. Nothing is right anymore. That feeling of _wrong_ , of everything around him being just slightly out of balance, has not left him. It has not diminished or faded, either.

He could call it grief, maybe. Merlin certainly would, if he were to try to explain himself. But Harry knows it's nothing that simple. The truth is much more serious.

There is something terribly wrong with the world now.

****

When the sky starts to get light outside his windows, he gets up and starts to get ready for the day. He didn't sleep; he hadn't expected to.

At the shop, Andrew offers to make him some tea. Harry declines politely and takes the lift down to the station below. Unlike Chester King, their new Arthur prefers to keep an office at HQ, coming to London only when she must.

Eggsy was well-liked at Kingsman, but life must go on. Planes and cars still need to be serviced in the enormous underground hangar. Grass must be mowed and gravel driveways must be raked. Windows require washing and floors need mopping. Food is still being served in the elegant dining room, and Merlin is seated as usual at his workstation just beyond the shuttle.

"Good morning," Merlin says.

Harry nods. "Is Arthur in?"

"I believe so," Merlin says. "How are you doing, Galahad?"

Harry is grateful to him for that. The use of his code name means Merlin knows there will be no changing his mind, no sending him back home to be useless and grieve. He is here to work, and it's best that everyone knows it.

"I'm fine, thank you," he says.

He finds Arthur in the hall just outside the dining room; she's clearly just finished breakfast. She's much shorter than he is, and her dark hair is just starting to turn grey. She came to them from the Far East branch, a seasoned agent who lost both a husband and a nephew to Kingsman. She was already installed as their new Arthur by the time Harry made it out of hospital after V-Day, but even if he had been present for the vote, he would have approved.

"Galahad." She wastes no time; she obviously knows why he's here so soon. "You might be interested to learn that Paul Dearing has been arrested."

Harry nods. He's not surprised.

"Which means we now have several terrorist groups whose financing has fallen through," Arthur says. She starts walking toward her office, and Harry goes with her, slowing his stride a little to match her own.

"What are we doing about it?" he asks.

"For the moment, nothing," Arthur says. "But we're keeping an eye on the situation. We may need you to intervene later."

"Of course," Harry says. He knows the money Kingsman took from Dearing has already been divided up. Some of it will go toward their massive expenses, some to payroll. And some will be funneled into a trust fund set up for Michelle and Daisy Unwin, ready for them at a moment's notice, should either of them ever call the number on the back of the medal Roxy Morton gave them.

"In the meantime," Arthur says, "I have something for you to look at."

The relief is indescribable. She has work for him. There is something for him to do. He has something to think about now besides Eggsy.

He just might survive this, after all.

Arthur opens the door to her office. "How's your Russian?"

"Just fine, thank you," Harry replies in that language.

"Good to hear it," Arthur says, in Russian as well. She switches back to English. "Neptune, our most senior informant in Moscow, has contacted us. He believes the Russians are on to him. After analysing the situation, I am inclined to agree. I want you to get him out."

It's everything Harry could have asked for. The mission will require him to travel, to leave England and the empty house in Stanhope Mews, and spend time in a country where he must speak another language. It's guaranteed to keep his mind occupied, to prevent him from giving in to grief and dwelling on Eggsy's loss. And it's all deliberate, of course, a gift to him from Arthur, her way of trying to help him cope.

He has never been more grateful to anyone. "Of course."

"I know I don't have to remind you how valuable Neptune is to us," Arthur says. Her dark eyes gaze at him, measuring him, judging if he's capable of this. "Bring him home safely, Galahad."

"I will," he promises.

****

It's one promise he's able to keep.

Neptune turns out to be an American, of all things. Many years ago he had tried for the position of Madison, but was cut in the third round of the trials. He approved of Kingsman and what they were doing, though, so when he went to Moscow as a teacher, he stayed in communication with the agency. Over the years he's been an invaluable source of information, and Harry is at once pleased to finally meet him, and sorry to see him go.

It takes him three days to make contact with Neptune, and another three days after that to safely extract the man. In all that time, Harry remains focused on the mission. He speaks no English for those six days, and at night he drinks expensive Russian vodka and watches movies, getting caught up on several years of Russian cinema. He does eventually sleep, passing out one night from sheer exhaustion; he wakes several hours later with a throbbing headache and a churning stomach.

A cold shower puts him back together again, though, and within an hour he's at the university, waiting for Neptune.

After that, it's simple. As simple as extracting a person from Moscow can be. Neptune's training at Statesman might have been years ago, but he remembers enough, and more importantly is smart enough to follow Harry's orders. Everything goes off smoothly, a perfect success. And so on Thursday afternoon, a week after he left London, Harry finds himself opening his front door and walking inside his house.

For a week he's been able to keep his mind off the pain waiting for him back here. But it's time to face it now. The moment he's been avoiding has finally arrived.

Everything in the house is just as he left it. And everywhere he looks, he sees Eggsy.

The gaming console plugged into the TV, with the two controllers. Eggsy had often invited him to play, but he had rarely said yes. He wishes desperately now that he had. It was such a simple thing, and it would have made Eggsy so happy. Why hadn't he said yes more often?

Eggsy's tablet is on the coffee table beside his favourite mug, a gift from Roxy that he dropped once, so the handle was cracked. His black hoodie is draped across the back of the couch, constantly left there no matter how many times Harry implored him to properly hang it up.

Slowly he walks over to the couch. He picks up the hoodie and holds it to his chest. The fabric is cold to the touch, too long away from the warmth of the young man who used to wear it.

He could fall over now, hold this scrap of the past close and sob until his heart breaks. But the worst is yet to come, and as always, Harry does what must be done. He keeps going, knowing the best thing to do is just get the pain over with.

He climbs the stairs wearily, still holding Eggsy's hoodie. He goes past the office and into their bedroom.

It's much worse in here.

Eggsy's clothes hang in the closet. A striped tie is draped across a knob of his top dresser drawer, one he tried on that last Monday morning before discarding it in favour of a different tie. A pair of his Oxfords are shunted off to one side, between the dresser and the wall. On top of the dresser is a framed photograph of his mother and sister, a photograph of Lee Unwin, a pair of platinum Kingsman cufflinks, a crumpled tenner and some change, and his Oyster card.

The drawer of his nightstand isn't fully shut. Inside is a bottle of lubricant, a pair of winter gloves that for some reason never made it to the closet, some battered paperback books, and a very sharp knife resting in a leather sheath. A framed photograph of Eggsy and Harry takes pride of place on top of the nightstand, a picture taken on Harry's first day back at Kingsman after V-Day. They stand in front of the manor, the lawn beautiful and green beneath their feet. Their suits are identical, their ties, their shoes, the styling of their hair. Only their smiles are different, Eggsy's bright and proud, Harry's more subdued. Eggsy's arm is around him, carelessly possessive.

He reaches out with a trembling hand, but falls short of actually touching the photograph.

He turns away, slowly walks around the bed. He sees the laundry basket on the floor of the closet, mostly empty. One of Eggsy's socks lies on the floor beside it, where he tossed it at the basket that last Sunday night, and missed.

The bathroom is a mess. Eggsy's towels hang from the rack, crooked. His shaving cream and aftershave sit beside the sink, although he did at least put his razor away. His hairbrush is up against the wall where he set it down so fast it slid across the counter. Strands of his hair are caught among the bristles.

Harry drops the hoodie to the floor. He picks up the bottle of aftershave; it's light in his hands, almost empty. He remembers now Eggsy saying one morning that he would need to stop by Trumper's soon and get a new one.

His hands shake as he presses the scent into his skin. He holds his hands to his face for a long time. Already he is starting to forget what it felt like when Eggsy touched him.

By then he is crying so hard that he almost drops the bottle as he sets it back down on the counter. Blind, he stumbles out of the bathroom, stopping only to pick up the hoodie and clutch it close again.

He crawls across the bed and buries his face in Eggsy's pillow. Here his scent is stronger, shampoo and aftershave and all the things that made Eggsy so unique, so special, so loved.

He's still crying when he falls asleep at last, the hoodie wrapped in his arms.

****

Two days later, all of Eggsy's possessions are boxed up and in the loft. All except the aftershave, the winged trainers, and the photograph on the nightstand. 

They're the only things he can bear to keep.

****

_You can change it, Harry._

But how does one change the entire world from being wrong?

How does one stop someone from being dead?

****

Against his will, without his consent, life goes on. November is cold and rainy. Remembrance Day comes and goes, and Harry joins the other Kingsmen for a service at Westminster Abbey. He stands in front of the row of poppies that they have come to adopt as their own, where most of their founders' sons fought and perished in the First World War. He could cry then and no one would remark upon it; there aren't many dry eyes on this day, after all. But he doesn't. He holds the tears back, knowing from bitter experience that they will return later, when he is alone and helpless before their force.

Merlin tells him that Kingsman is too busy right now to hold trials for Gawain's position. Harry knows rationally that this is true, but at the same time he wonders if it's wise to let them go on for too long with a hole in their ranks. They _are_ busy, but they are also stretched too thin in the wake of V-Day, having lost Bedivere to that day's violence as well as Chester King. 

Lancelot goes to Berlin. Tristan goes to Madrid. Harry goes to Glasgow, Copenhagen, and a tiny town in Finland where a group of terrorists plans to take possession of a bomb en route from Russia. He kills them all, and though there is an extended period of time during the firefight when he is out in the open, his head exposed for the kill shot, he walks away completely unharmed.

Merlin says he was lucky. Arthur scowls. Percival gives him a long look, no judgment in his eyes, only quiet understanding.

On the morning of 19th November Harry wakes up with greater reluctance than usual. He lies still, his eyes closed, until at last the pertinent facts of the day can no longer be denied. It's Thursday. He has to be at HQ early for a meeting with Arthur. And Eggsy has been dead for one full month.

Immediately tears sting his eyes. Angrily, he pushes them back. He is tired of crying, of this whole grieving process. He is tired of the sympathetic looks, the invitations for dinner, for drinks, for tea. He wants it all to be over with. He wants to be able to come back here and not have to stiffen his spine before he walks inside to face the empty house. He wants to be able to look around and not be overwhelmed with memories of the time when Eggsy sat here or stood there or kissed him in that spot.

He wants to stop feeling that everything is wrong, that the world around him is slowly tilting into madness.

He wonders some days if maybe he isn't the one going mad.

****

He's at HQ when his glasses emit the soft _ping!_ that means someone is attempting to make contact. Harry puts them on in some annoyance; he's just come from a workout in the gym and he was about to take a shower. "What is it?"

"It's Kay," Merlin says quietly.

Harry goes very still. In spite of his sweaty, disheveled state, he feels cold all over.

"Assemble in one hour," Merlin says.

He lets out a long, slow breath. "All right," he says.

He takes the glasses off again and stands there, just holding them. He thinks about Kay, who was working together with Eggsy on a Swiss banker who just so happened to run a human trafficking ring on the side. Had Eggsy lived, they would have both traveled to Zurich, but instead Kay went there alone, determined to see their earlier plans through.

And now Kay is dead.

They will have to hold recruitment trials now. Even Arthur must see that. They must fill all three vacancies at the Round Table. Bedivere, Gawain, and now Kay.

Harry closes his eyes. He can't think of a single person to propose for any one of those seats. Certainly not for Eggsy's chair. On occasion names are retired at Kingsman, when a particular knight dies in a suitably heroic fashion –- there will never be another Pellinore, for instance. But Eggsy's death was unfortunately common for their line of work. The name Gawain will continue on with someone else's face, someone else's deeds.

He steps into the shower, but all he can think about is Kay. They never spoke of it, of Kay's intention to move ahead with the mission he had planned so meticulously with Eggsy. Had Kay ever been touched by that sensation of _wrong_? Had he felt it on the flight to Zurich, or in those last few moments before he died? Had he realised that if Eggsy had been there, things would have gone differently?

It's impossible to know. As with any death, Arthur will review the transmission from Kay's glasses, but beyond that, Harry knows nothing. There is never any last report, any final announcement. Kay is gone, they will toast to him and attend his funeral –- hopefully with an actual body present in the casket –- and then they will move on. Someone new will take his name, and Kay will live on only as a portrait in the hall outside the library.

The thought makes Harry reach out and brace one arm along the tile wall of the shower. He hasn't gone down there, hasn't seen Eggsy's portrait. No one asked him for a photograph, so either they used one already on file, or Roxy supplied one.

He isn't sure if he will ever be ready to see that painting.

He finishes up in the shower and gets dressed again. He combs his hair, knots his tie precisely, and laces up his shoes. The suit is his armour, oh yes, and he feels marginally safer behind its bespoke protection.

The toast is solemn and sparsely attended. Lancelot appears via hologram, as does Bors. Harry is the only one to sit in person beside Arthur. The three empty seats at the table seem to mock him. He deliberately does not look at the last chair on the right, where Eggsy once sat.

"It is time to bring Kingsman back to full strength," Arthur says. "You have forty-eight hours to propose candidates for Bedivere, Gawain, and Kay. Have them report to UK HQ by noon on Friday." She looks tired, heavy circles beneath her eyes. "That is all."

Lancelot and Bors disappear. Harry contemplates his empty glass of brandy and wonders how the fuck he's going to come up with three candidates for Kingsman in two days.

The question occupies him for the rest of the day. He supposes he could propose Eggsy's friends, as a sort of tribute. But one look at their files suggests otherwise. Jamal has some skill with electronics and auto mechanics, which could always be useful, but Ryan seems to have no skills at all except for shoplifting and attempting to steal cars. Neither one of them has the fortitude or courage necessary for Kingsman. And though Harry hardly knows them, he wouldn't feel right setting them up to fail simply so he could fulfill his quota.

In the end he goes with three young people he doesn't know at all, two sons and one daughter of vague acquaintances gathered over the years. He has no emotional investment in any of them, and honestly does not worry about whether or not they will succeed. He does his best by them, but when all three are cut from the trials even before the midway point, he is not disappointed.

After that he stays as far away from the candidate trials as he can. Merlin had asked him at the start if he wanted to be involved, and he had almost said yes, if only to spare his old friend from having to shoulder all the burden of shepherding twenty-one young people by himself. But in the end he said no. He's having enough trouble dealing with Eggsy's death. The last thing he needs is to watch complete strangers go through the same motions Eggsy did, competing for Eggsy's name, Eggsy's knighthood.

He tries talking about it with Merlin once, on a rare night when the candidates -– only ten of them remaining at this point -– are all in and there is nothing to be done for the moment. They share a drink in the dining room, neither one speaking for some time. Merlin looks exhausted, and Harry has just come back from a mission in Ireland.

It's late January, and it's cold out. Eggsy has been dead for three months now, and still Harry wakes up most mornings needing to remind himself of that fact. He still sleeps on Eggsy's side of the bed, although Eggsy's pillow no longer holds his scent. On rare occasions he permits himself the tiniest splash of Eggsy's aftershave. He knows he could buy a new bottle of the same scent, but it wouldn't be the same.

When he was with Eggsy he used to think that maybe there was hope for the world, after all. If they could find each other against all odds and be so happy together, maybe things weren't beyond salvage. Now he knows better. Now he wakes up every morning with the unrelenting knowledge that the world has gone horribly wrong. Some days he wants to bury his head in his hands and scream until it goes away.

Other days he can't muster the energy to care.

"I'm worried about Lancelot," Merlin says.

Harry blinks. He has no earthly idea why Merlin should have said that. "Why?"

"She's trying too hard," Merlin says. 

Harry shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

"If Eggsy was here, it would be different," Merlin says. "I suppose. Or maybe I just hope." He blows out his breath. "They were both new together, both inexperienced. She could let herself make mistakes then. But now she's the newest agent, and the youngest. And she's the only woman in the field." He sighs. "She takes risks she shouldn't. I feel she's trying to prove something to everyone. One of these days it's going to bite her in the ass."

"Let it," Harry suggests. "It's the only way she'll slow down." He's known plenty of people like Roxy Morton before, might have even been one himself, in his younger days.

Merlin just sighs again. "There's other news. You won't want to hear it."

"Then by all means tell me." He contemplates pouring himself another drink, then decides against it.

"You asked me to keep an eye out, so I have to tell you. Michelle Unwin has gone back to Dean Baker."

Harry leans back in his chair. He isn't surprised. Not one bit. Without Eggsy around to stop her, of course Michelle would gravitate back to the one person who showed her any love and affection over the years, even if that love and affection was mixed in with violence and drugs.

"If that is her choice," he says.

"Apparently it is," Merlin says. He glances at Harry. "May I remind you that if you intend to do anything about the situation, please do not wear your glasses."

"You needn't remind me of anything," Harry says. "I have no intention of doing anything regarding Michelle Unwin." She had made it perfectly clear that she wanted nothing to do with him, and he will respect her wishes. It's the least he can do for her, even if it means missing Daisy and even JB more than he can stand sometimes.

"Ah," Merlin says quietly.

Harry looks at the decanter of whisky, then says to hell with it. He pours himself another drink, then tops off Merlin's glass. "Do you ever feel like…like things aren't what they should be?"

"Quite often," Merlin says with a wry twist of his lips.

"No," Harry says. "It's not a rhetorical question."

Surprised, Merlin looks at him. "Then…no," he says. "I can't say that I do."

"I do," Harry says. "Every day."

"How do you mean?" Merlin says. His brow furrows in concern.

"Ever since Eggsy died," Harry says, "I have felt that there is something very wrong with the world. Things happening that shouldn't be happening. It's difficult to explain."

"Harry, that's called grief," Merlin says quietly.

"No," he insists. He knows it's not that. This is so much more than pure grief. It goes far beyond that. He just doesn't know what to do about it.

 _You can change it, Harry_ , Eggsy had told him in his dream, but that was three months ago, and he still doesn't have any idea how to go about it.

"Can I suggest something?" Merlin says.

"No, you may not," Harry says tartly. "Because you are about to suggest that I see a therapist. Which I do not need. Nor do I need more sleep, more Vitamin C, or to go on holiday to somewhere warm and tropical." He sets his glass down without having taken even a single sip of the alcohol inside. "If you'll excuse me."

"Harry." Merlin sounds distressed as he rises from his chair.

"I wish you luck with the recruits," he says. He does not look back as he heads for the door.

All the way home he nurses his hurt, seething over the fact that his oldest friend won't even listen to him. It's clear that he cannot mention it again, though. If he does, Merlin will be forced in good conscience to tell Arthur, and that will lead to all kinds of questions he doesn't want asked.

So. Whatever he plans to do about things, whatever he _can_ do, he must do it alone.

****

The candidate trials end in February. A young man named Rajit earns the name of Gawain. Harry dislikes him enormously, although he is honest enough with himself to admit that he would feel the same way about whoever had won the job. To Rajit's face he is polite and civil, but nothing else. When he bothers to think about it at all, he vaguely hopes that someone (preferably Lancelot) will take pity on the young man and explain why Galahad should be so distant with him, but mostly he just doesn't care.

Kingsman has a full Round Table again, which is good, because they seem to be busier than ever. The consequences of V-Day just keep coming; all around the world governments and economies are failing or else dangerously close.

At the end of March, when Eggsy has been dead for five months and Harry is just starting to think about sleeping on his own side of the bed again, he finds himself on a rooftop in Malaysia for a mission. More specifically, he finds himself being pushed off a roof in Malaysia.

It's a long fall that by all rights should kill him, or at the very least leave him with several broken bones. Instead he walks away, unharmed. He even manages to locate his target again and shoot them in the head, thus ensuring that no one else will die at their hands.

Merlin can't believe it. Tristan asks if he was wearing a mattress beneath his suit. Harry thinks he might finally understand what is happening and why things are so fucked up in the world now, but he doesn't want to think about it, he really doesn't.

He goes on not thinking about it, too. Right up until the day Lancelot dies.

She is in Rome when it happens, in the hotel room of her mark, breaking into the hotel safe. Unknown to her, the tracker she placed earlier on the chief of her mark's security detail fell off in the rain. She has no advance warning before three of them enter the hotel room, taking her completely by surprise.

Lancelot is a Kingsman, though, and one of their best. She still might have taken them out, but for Merlin's dire prophecy come true. Too many sleepless nights spent working on missions or flying thousands of miles to a far-off destination finally catch up to her. Her reaction times are slowed just enough for one of the mercenaries to grab her from behind and break her neck.

Harry is at home when the call comes, trying to make himself finish eating a meal he didn't really want in the first place. He lost weight after Eggsy's death and he's never gained it back; more than one person has told him that he's too thin these days.

Arthur delivers the news herself. "I'm very sorry. I know you were fond of her."

Fond. What an absolutely horrid word. It was impossible not to love Roxy Morton, and not just because Eggsy had loved her too. She was clever and funny and one of the bravest people Harry ever knew. In the miserable weeks following Eggsy's death, she had been there for him in a dozen different ways. Bringing him coffee, inviting him to dinners he never attended, taking some of Eggsy's things to Michelle.

He had never thanked her for any of that.

"Yes," he murmurs. There is really nothing else he can say.

"We assemble at ten," Arthur says.

"I'll be there," Harry says.

He tries to imagine having to give this news to Eggsy, but he simply can't do it. In this, at least, there is a certain gratitude in knowing that Eggsy is gone. He will never have to grieve for his friend; he has been spared that pain.

There is no such mercy for Harry. He sits at the head of his dining room table and drops his head into his hands.

****

The funeral is subdued. Harry attends as one of Roxy's co-workers from the shop on Savile Row and offers his condolences to her family. He leaves as soon as it's polite to do so. He can't abide cemeteries. He has not visited Eggsy's grave.

Afterward those who knew her best at Kingsman gather at the manor. There is some laughter as they recall some of Roxy's more daring exploits.

Harry doesn't join in the laughter. Neither does Alistair. He blames himself, of course. Harry understands why, but he knows it isn't true. Roxy didn't die because of Alistair, or even her own misguided actions.

This is Eggsy's fault.

Merlin had said it, all those months ago. _If Eggsy was here..._ If Eggsy was alive, Roxy would never have felt so compelled to prove herself. She would have pushed herself hard, because that was her nature, but with Eggsy's steadying friendship, she would have known when to stop.

He can no longer deny the truth. The world _is_ wrong now, and it all goes back to Eggsy and that terrible, rainy Monday in October.

 _It should have been me_ , Harry thinks. _It was supposed to be me._

But Eggsy had called out that warning, and for his courage he had died, taking the bullet meant for Harry. Everything had changed then -- and at last he knows what Eggsy meant by that cryptic comment in his dream.

Eggsy's death is causing ripples to spread through the world, like a stone cast in a pond causes ripples to spread through the water, disturbing everything they touch.

"It's me," Harry says out loud. "I'm the stone."

He doesn't belong here. He should have died that day, not Eggsy.

"Harry?"

He startles back to reality, somewhat alarmed that he was so lost in thought he didn't even hear anyone approach. "Merlin."

"Take you home?" Merlin offers.

Harry jumps at the chance. "God, yes. Thank you."

Merlin nods. He is taking Roxy's death hard, more than usual. He has a soft spot for all the agents he's trained, but Harry suspects there was a little more going on with Roxy. Nothing that he had ever acted on, but there all the same.

They don't talk on the shuttle to Savile Row, or during the cab ride to Stanhope Mews. When the car stops, though, Merlin says, "May I come in?"

"Of course," Harry says. "I think we could both use a drink."

"Yes," Merlin murmurs.

Harry leads the way inside. The house is clearly occupied by only one person. There are no stray mugs lying around, or articles of clothing tossed carelessly on the couch. It's warm, though, and Harry moves immediately to pour them both a strong drink.

He sits in his favourite armchair, where once upon a time he had sat cosied up to Eggsy, the two of them crammed into a space too small for them just so they could kiss and make out like a pair of lovesick teenagers. Here too he had sat one night pretending to read while instead covertly watching Eggsy play his video game. He remembers the clear lines of Eggsy's profile, the way Eggsy bit his lip when he was concentrating, the frustration in his voice as he swore at the game when things didn't go his way.

"I went to Lancelot's house," Merlin says, "as part of the retrieval team."

Harry nods. It's standard procedure, although it's something they don't like to talk about. Any time an agent dies, a team is sent to their house to remove anything linking them to Kingsman. It hadn't been necessary in Eggsy's case, but it was with Roxy.

"She had something," Merlin says. "We had disagreed about what to do with it." His eyes grow wet with tears. "Doesn't seem to matter now."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black jeweller's box.

Harry's breath catches. "Oh."

Merlin gazes sadly at the little box and the ring that must be concealed inside. "It wasn't hers," he says. He holds the box out to Harry. "It was Eggsy's."

Harry just stares. There is a faint roaring in his ears. It's hard to hear Merlin speak. "He asked her to keep it for him. So you wouldn't find it."

The tears come before he can stop them. "What?"

Merlin stands up and walks toward him. Harry shrinks back in his chair. He doesn't want it. No. No no no.

"After... She asked me what I thought she should do. She was worried it would only hurt you if you knew."

Harry stares at the box. He hears the little sound he makes, not quite a whimper but dangerously close.

"I disagreed," Merlin says. "I thought you had a right to know. I thought it might help, if you knew Eggsy felt the same way about you."

But he _had_ known. Of course he had known. Eggsy had never been shy about letting his feelings show, even before they had officially sealed things with a kiss.

"Will you take it?" Merlin asks.

He doesn't want to see the ring Eggsy bought for him, that golden promise of a future together. He doesn't even know if he hates Merlin for showing it to him, doesn't know yet if Roxy had the right of it all along.

"Should I have told you?" Merlin asks.

Harry nods. He holds out a shaking hand.

The box fits in the palm of his hand. He doesn't open it.

"I'm very sorry," Merlin says. He turns to go.

"Don't," Harry says. It comes out as little more than a croak.

Merlin turns back toward him. Tears glisten on his cheeks.

"Stay," Harry says.

And for one night, at least, the house is not quite so empty.

Merlin stays in the guest room, where Eggsy slept the night they stayed up making martinis, the night his love for Harry shone through with every smile. Harry has slept there himself on the many nights when Eggsy's ghost is too loud in the bed they once shared.

It's not the same as having someone beside him in this bed that is far too big for just one person, but it's better than nothing. At least he isn't completely alone tonight.

He sleeps better than he has in months.

****

He knows right away that he's dreaming because he's back on Savile Row, Eggsy at his side. The sight of him after so long is enough to bring tears to his eyes. Even though the outfit is familiar, the gold and yellow jacket, the black jeans, the winged trainers, it seems new and fascinating. Eggsy is so close, and yet the distance between them might as well be measured in miles. No matter how hard he tries, he can't raise his arm and touch Eggsy. The frustration is enough to make him want to howl in fury.

And just like the other dream, he can't stop walking, can't halt the inexorable march toward the shop and the pain lurking within. But this time at least he's able to speak. "Eggsy."

Eggsy smiles, his whole face lighting up. "Harry."

 _I miss you_ , he wants to say. _I miss you more than I ever thought it was possible. Some days it takes all my strength just to get out of bed. I can't do this without you._

But every step takes them closer to Kingsman, and he can't lose this chance. So instead he says, "I know what you meant now when you said some things could be changed."

"Yeah," Eggsy says. "I'm sorry. You had to figure it out on your own. I wasn't allowed to tell you."

"By who?" he demands. It's almost funny the way he's immediately angry on Eggsy's behalf. Eggsy is dead. Who now has the authority to deny him anything?

"I can't say and it don't matter," Eggsy says. "Not yet, anyway."

The shop is getting closer. Too close, damn it. He wants to stay here with Eggsy forever. He will happily spend eternity walking up and down this same stretch of pavement if it means he gets to be with Eggsy.

"What can you tell me then?" Harry asks.

"That you're right," Eggsy says. "About the world bein' fucked up."

Relief washes over him. So he isn't going mad. It really is true. "What do I do about it?" he asks.

"Sorry," Eggsy says glumly. "Can't tell you."

They're almost at the shop now. Time has run out. Harry stares at his beautiful, dear boy and vows, "I'll do whatever it takes to get you back. I promise."

Eggsy grins, his eyes alight with love. "I know you will."

"And for the record," he says, "my answer would have been yes."

Eggsy looks like he's about to cry. "Oh Harry."

They're at the shop. Eggsy stops walking, unable to go any further. Harry keeps going against his will, twisted around so he can continue looking at Eggsy for as long as possible. "I love you," he says. "I'll find a way. I swear it."

"I love--" Eggsy starts to say, and then he's gone.

Harry wakes up with a start. Immediately the pertinent facts make themselves known. It's Friday. It's going to rain today. Roxy Morton has been killed. And he has to find a way to bring Eggsy back from the dead.

It's impossible, of course. He is not living in a movie or a Harry Potter novel. The dead stay dead. And yet…

And yet he knows he talked to Eggsy from beyond the grave. Twice now, in fact. He _knows_ it.

Somewhere, somehow, Eggsy still lives. Or even just a part of him. Maybe because he was never meant to die in the first place. All Harry knows is that Eggsy is out there somewhere, waiting for him to figure it all out.

Panic coils in his chest at the thought. What the fuck he is supposed to do? Where does he even begin? How do you make the impossible possible?

He looks around, seeking answers to questions he isn't even supposed to be asking -– and his gaze falls on the black velvet box that Merlin gave him last night. He goes very still at the sight of it, forgetting to breathe, forgetting even that he is meant to be panicking right now.

Slowly he pushes the covers back. He sits up and reaches for the box.

He had no idea. None at all. He doesn't know when Eggsy bought the ring, or what inner dialogue led to him buying it in the first place. He doesn't know why Eggsy bought it but didn't give it to him, why he chose to hide it with Roxy instead. He doesn't even know how long Roxy had it before Eggsy's death. Eggsy could have given it to her a month before that fatal Monday, or that very same weekend.

It takes him a while to find the courage to open the box. The hinge creaks a little as he lifts the lid. Nestled within are two gold bands. They are both unadorned except for a thin stripe of platinum down the middle. One is somewhat smaller than the other, and that is the one Harry carefully takes from the box.

It will fit perfectly, he can see that at a glance. He wants to slide it onto his finger, wants it very badly. But it feels wrong. Eggsy intended to give him this ring. Most likely he meant to do it in a rather romantic setting, too. To wear it now when he isn't here to see it wouldn't be right.

He must wait until he has Eggsy by his side once again.

Tears sting his eyes as he puts the ring back in the box. He wishes he hadn't opened it and seen the rings within. He wishes Merlin hadn't given it to him in the first place. Roxy was right all along. This is too painful. He can't do this. He can't.

An hour later, though, he's downstairs making breakfast for Merlin. Around his neck is a gold chain, the same one Eggsy used to wear his Kingsman medal on. The gold ring hangs from the chain, tucked safely beneath Harry's shirt. No one need ever know it is there.

No one except him.

****

In April Eggsy's friend Ryan overdoses on heroin. Harry debates going to the funeral, but ultimately decides not to. Instead he sends a sympathy card to Jamal.

He doesn't receive a response.

The recruit trials for Lancelot drag on. Harry didn't even bother proposing someone this time around. One of the candidates breaks a leg on the skydive test. Tristan mutters that the position is cursed. Harry, who's known three Lancelots already, thinks that's utter nonsense and tells him so. 

He has lunch with Neptune and drinks with Alistair. At home he rearranges the bedroom furniture one night and ends up sleeping in the guest room anyway. He finds himself looking thoughtfully at churches and cathedrals, wondering about his dreams of Eggsy. He never goes inside any of them, though.

That sense of _wrong_ continues to oppress him. He sees it everywhere he looks; even the brightest sunny day is darker than it should be. It weighs down on him, an invisible yoke on his shoulders that he carries with him everywhere he goes. 

_You can change it, Harry._

He refuses to do his research (and what a horribly inappropriate word that is for what he's doing) on any computer Kingsman might have access to. Instead he goes to the library and looks up how to bring people back from the dead. He feels foolish and stupid, his heart pounding so hard he finds himself looking around for the attendants to come hurrying over so they can usher him out of their sacred space. He reads stories about miraculous resurrections, about the power of prayer, about magic spells and rituals. It's all complete and total rubbish and he is an utter fool to waste his time like this. In fury he stalks out of the library and goes straight to HQ, where he spends hours pounding the shit out of a training dummy until he is covered in sweat and can hardly breathe.

He accepts missions that send him to Monaco, Nova Scotia, and back to Russia. He accomplishes one success after another, no matter the difficulty or the odds against him. He grows reckless now that he knows the truth, taking risks and exposing himself to danger without any thought for the consequences. Why should he worry? Bullets don't reach him, blades are deflected, punches don't connect. Since October he hasn't had so much as a paper cut.

Arthur says she will pull him out of the field if he doesn't start to show some restraint. Bors says he thought Galahad was supposed to be pure, not stupid.

Merlin has him over for dinner and flat out asks if he has a death wish.

"No," Harry says honestly. It's quite the opposite, in fact, but he can hardly say that.

Merlin gives him a long, sceptical look, but accepts his answer. He starts talking about the new Lancelot, a girl from Buckinghamshire and Arthur's proposal.

Harry listens, but he doesn't really care.

As he's saying good night, though, a sudden realisation goes through him like a cold shudder. He looks at Merlin, his oldest and closest living friend, and he feels almost faint with horror.

_Please. Please not Merlin, too. He's all I have left. Please don't leave me here all alone._

"Harry? Are you all right?"

But it's inevitable, he thinks dully. Because he is here and Eggsy is dead. Because sooner or later something will happen that can be directly traced back to Eggsy's absence in their lives. And then Merlin will die, too.

He smiles. "Fine, thank you. It was a lovely evening. We should do it again."

Merlin looks pleased. "We will," he promises. He's lost weight recently, too, grief for Lancelot wearing him down. Harry sees it and feels almost sick with guilt; he hadn't even really seen it before. But Merlin has been quietly suffering all this time, too. He loved Eggsy and Kay and Lancelot as much as any of them.

Harry climbs into the cab that will take him home and has never hated himself so strongly. How much longer is he going to use his selfish pain as an excuse to treat his friend so terribly? The friend he won't have for much longer, if his suspicions are right.

He holds it together on the ride back to his house, but as soon as the front door closes behind him, he gives in to the terror.

"Not him," he says aloud. "You can't take him." They must be listening, the ones who won't let Eggsy speak to him in his dreams, the ones who are keeping him. "Not Merlin. Please."

The house remains dark and silent. After a long, long moment, Harry wipes at his eyes and trudges upstairs to get ready for yet another sleepless night.

****

May arrives, and at last London starts to warm up from the long, cold winter. The new Kay almost blows up the Louvre. Bors nearly drowns in Venice. Merlin drops his clipboard and it shatters; he spends a week in Berlin getting a new one custom made, and comes back with shiny new tech for everyone.

And on May 19, seven months to the day when Eggsy died, there is an eruption of violence in the East Side. It makes the news headlines four nights in a row. A bloody gang war over drugs and money owed. A fight breaking out in a pub, five people killed in the worst violence the city has seen since V-Day.

The pub is the Black Prince. Among the casualties are Michelle and Daisy Unwin.

Harry hears about it before the general public. It's a Thursday night and he's at home for the third day in a row. He's tired and he smells like bleach from just having finished cleaning the downstairs loo. He's looking forward to a long hot shower and then a stiff drink. And then maybe another. 

Caradoc is the one to call him. With so much of Merlin's time taken up with the new recruits, she's been filling in more and more for him lately. She is very kind as she tells Harry that the last of Eggsy's family is now dead.

He listens to her without saying a word. When she finishes, he thanks her quietly and hangs up.

He gropes for the back of the couch and finds it. He has to cling to it to keep from falling down.

It's been over a year since he was at the Black Prince, but he remembers it perfectly well. He can imagine the violence erupting inside the pub with terrible ease. Dean Baker and his gang on one side of the room, the other gang facing them. And at a table by the window, where once upon a time Harry and Eggsy shared their first drink together, Michelle Unwin with her young daughter.

She was only there because she was with Dean again. And she was with Dean again because her son wasn't around anymore to stop her, to make her see that she was worth so much more.

And Daisy, that bright, cheerful little girl, is now gone. Killed in a senseless act of violence simply because her mother didn't have anywhere else to leave her that night. So Daisy came along to the Black Prince, playing with a doll on the bench seat while Michelle drank and Dean grew more and more red in the face, while tensions in the pub rose and ordinary men and women hurried to finish their drinks and leave, not quite understanding why they felt the urge to get out of there.

Little Daisy, the only reason Eggsy had stayed in that horrible house in the estates. The beautiful little girl who always had a smile for Harry as she lifted her arms, wanting to be picked up. She is dead now, too, just one more life snuffed out in this cruel world that's been fucked up from the moment Eggsy was shot and killed.

Dean, of course, survived. People like Dean always do.

 _I should have been there_ , Harry thinks. _I should have tried._ He had let Michelle's anger drive him away, and he had justified it by telling himself that he was respecting her wishes. But he should have tried anyway. He should have gone to see her when he first heard that she had gone back to Dean. He should have told her that this wasn't what Eggsy would have wanted. And if that didn't work he could have used Daisy as a lever, shamelessly laying guilt on her, asking her if this was the life she really wanted for her daughter. Anything to get her away, to get them both to safety.

But he hadn't. And even the knowledge that it wouldn't have mattered even if he _had_ tried doesn't make it hurt any less.

He sinks to the floor behind the couch, one hand sliding down the rich leather. He feels old then, so terribly helpless and old.

****

It turns out there are plenty of ways Eggsy could come back from the dead, ranging from the common deal with the devil to invoking one of several mystical creatures that has the ability to grant such a wish. They certainly seem powerful enough to do the deed, which is a plus. On the other hand, none of those creatures actually _exists_. Nor is he about to resort to drawing pentagrams on his floor and lighting candles.

Harry tries it, anyway. All in the name of leaving no stone unturned. Just to be safe.

He does it in the loft, too angry and ashamed to admit to it in the open. It doesn't work, of course, and he's left with a black rage that can only be satisfied by violence. Which he fully means to unleash, once he's made sure all the candles are extinguished -– but as he reaches for the nearest box at hand, intent on ripping it apart, he realises that it's one of the boxes containing Eggsy's possessions.

Instead of destroying the box and all it contains, he winds up on his knees, Eggsy's black hoodie pressed to his face while he sobs gracelessly into the soft fabric. 

This is what he's been reduced to.

****

The anniversary of V-Day is a Friday. Shops and businesses are closed in memorial. Hospitals and cemeteries are flooded with visitors. All day the news coverage is about that historic event. Around the globe, people gather to hold candlelight vigils, offer up prayers, sing songs, and hold hands. The gatherings are meant to be an affirmation of life, a celebration of humanity and its survival.

Harry wants nothing to do with any of it. Survival is an ugly word. It means scrambling for existence, clinging to it fiercely by one's fingertips. When one is focused solely on survival, there is no room left for things like love and compassion.

He wakes up the morning after V-Day, Eggsy's black hoodie in his arms, and he thinks, _I am surviving._

****

There are a lot of suicides in the wake of that sombre anniversary. Eggsy's friend Jamal is one of them.

Harry sees the news and turns away. He is so tired. He can't even feel any regret about it.

****

Kingsman sends him to Cairo, Miami, Bogota. He lives out of a dirty hotel in Austria for two weeks before finally getting the chance to slip the poison in his target's coffee. Closer to home, some punk kids try to mug him one night as he's walking through the city. He puts two of them in hospital and leaves the third crying and bleeding on the pavement. He walks away without looking back, without even a scraped knuckle to show for it.

He buys a set of new bedroom furniture and has it delivered. It looks good in the room, opens it up and makes it appear larger. He makes up the bed with a new set of sheets and a new comforter, and then is stricken with such guilt that he has to leave the room.

Eggsy's black hoodie is draped across the couch, right where Eggsy himself always left it, dropping it there so casually when he would come home. Since rescuing it from the loft, Harry has kept it there; on the rare occasion when anyone comes to visit, he hides it upstairs.

He sits on the couch now, but he doesn't reach for the hoodie. This is his punishment, his penance for erasing yet another part of the life he and Eggsy shared together.

"I'm sorry," he says. He never used to talk to himself. It's only recently that he's picked up the terrible habit.

Better to talk to himself, though, than admit he's really talking to a ghost.

"I don't know what to do anymore."

He's tried so hard to make himself dream about Eggsy again. Not the usual dreams, the ones that are more like remembering the times they had. He needs to have one of the _real_ dreams again. He needs to be able to talk to Eggsy.

"I don't know how to bring you back," he says. "You said I could change it but I can't. I can't, Eggsy. I've tried. And I can't."

He lives in a world where technology makes many things possible, but there is not nor will there ever be technology that can bring back someone nine months dead. There is no prayer, no magic spell, no potion that can give him Eggsy again.

There is only himself. Surviving in a world gone wrong.

****

August is hot and sunny. All of London complains about the heat wave. Bors gets sick and passes it around to everyone at Kingsman; only Harry remains healthy. Arthur breaks her arm while showing her grand-niece how to ride a horse. And Rajit, the new Gawain and Eggsy's replacement, is killed when a bomb blows up in his face.

Merlin resigns the same day.

Harry goes to see him that evening. He feels leaden all over, his body too heavy to carry anymore. Every step is an effort, every thought painfully muddled and slow.

"How long have you known?"

Merlin exhales slowly. "A couple months. I missed the early signs. By the time it got to this," he holds up a bottle of pills, "it was already too late. They've given me three months, four at most."

Harry shuts his eyes. Pain twists in his stomach, and it's all he can do not to throw up. 

Merlin might say it was too late, but Eggsy would have known. He had lost a grandmother to the disease. If he had been alive, he would have seen the warning signs and urged Merlin to see a doctor.

But Eggsy isn't here. And now Merlin is facing a death sentence.

"It wasn't your fault," Harry says. "No one would have been fast enough to warn him in time."

"I'm having trouble sleeping," Merlin says. "The pain meds make it hard to concentrate, to analyse a situation and make a decision. I saw the bomb through his glasses but I couldn't warn him in time. Tell me again it's not my fault that Rajit died."

Harry can only look at him helplessly. Cancer is such a cruel disease. Merlin deserves so much better.

"It's all right," Merlin says. "I've already discussed it with Arthur." He smiles, so bittersweet. "I can still be useful."

Harry wants to scream at the sky. He thinks of the night he and Merlin had dinner, the night he saw how thin Merlin had become. He had stupidly, selfishly, pleaded with the world not to take his friend away, not even realising that it was already too late. He had missed the signs, too, the same ones Eggsy would have spotted right away.

He should have known better. In this fucked up world, where everything is wrong, so fucking _wrong_ , it all comes back to Eggsy.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

"Live your life," Merlin says.

"I don't know how to do that anymore," Harry says honestly.

Merlin just looks at him. "I know the feeling," he says.

****

On the last Friday in August, Merlin travels to Scotland. Visiting family, is the word given out at Kingsman. But Caradoc's eyes are red as she says it, and Harry has a letter with his name written on the envelope that he hasn't dared to open yet.

A week later there is an explosion at a terrorist camp in Nigeria. One of Kingsman's greatest successes, a mission previously thought to be impossible. There are no survivors.

Harry sits up all night, staring blankly at the empty room, a glass of brandy beside him, ready to be raised in a toast.

But when morning comes, the glass is untouched.

****

It's over then. This world, fucked up and terrible, has claimed its last. There are no more deaths.

Or rather, there almost certainly are, but Harry does not know about them. The ripples from Eggsy's death have spread too far now. There is no way of knowing what is happening as a result of his absence.

He can guess, though.

That lady struck by the lorry in Piccadilly might have lived if Eggsy had been there, driving too fast as usual. But without him there to cut her off and make her miss the traffic light, she is at the junction right on time. Her car ends up a twisted mass of metal, and she is dead at age twenty-two...

That old man in Wales might not have had a heart attack if he wasn't so worried about his grandson. Who just so happens to run in the same circles as Dean Baker. But Eggsy isn't here to put a stop to Dean's activities...

The newsagents around the corner is robbed and the owner knifed and killed. If Eggsy had been there...

And on and on it goes.

****

Harry spends September 6, Eggsy's birthday, getting as drunk as is humanly possible. He's in Russia again, which makes this goal very easy to attain.

Three weeks later he's back in London after yet another successful mission. With Merlin gone and recruitment trials for the new Gawain not even halfway over, Kingsman is in a state of disarray just one step short of chaos.

Arthur meets with him to debrief. She looks exhausted; he doesn't envy her one bit. Shortly after his return from Kentucky, Merlin had told him that his name had been briefly considered for Arthur's position. Harry had replied that he had never been so glad to be passed over in all his life.

"I have something for you," Arthur says. "I'm sure you remember Paul Dearing."

Not a day goes by when Harry doesn't think about what happened at Dearing's house on that rainy Monday. He blinks and he sees it again: the spray of blood, the way Eggsy fell, the bullet hole in his forehead.

"I remember," he says.

"Dearing is back in London," Arthur says. "A free man. He's remade his fortune and himself, and he's once again advertising himself as a financial backer for anyone willing to do his dirty work." She gives Harry a look. "We gave him a second chance. He doesn't get a third."

"Understood," Harry says. He's not sure if he should feel grateful or eager for the chance to kill Dearing. It won't change anything, after all. He could slaughter half of London and Eggsy would still be dead.

Nonetheless, he plans it out meticulously. He spends a week tracking Dearing and learning his schedule. He memorises the blueprints for the house and the security system. He studies the members of Dearing's security team -- they're all new, nobody left from last October.

On the night of October 6th, Harry moves. Everything goes smoothly according to plan, dead men toppling like dominos, alarms silenced, locks picked. Just before midnight he lets himself into Dearing's office and shuts the door behind him.

Annoyed by the interruption, Dearing doesn't even look up. "I _said_ , it can wait until tomorrow."

"It really can't," Harry says.

Startled, Dearing looks up. His complexion goes sickly white when he sees Harry standing there, the smallest bloodstain on his white pocket square from when one of the guards put up more of a fight than the others. "You," he breathes.

"I'm pleased you remember me," Harry says, and shoots him.

Dearing screams and clutches his wounded arm. "What do you want?" he cries. "Whatever it is, I'll give it to you."

It's the worst possible thing he could have said. "Do you remember my partner?" Harry asks. "The young man I was with?"

Dearing gulps and nods. Blood seeps between his fingers where his hand is pressed to his wound.

"You ask what I want?" Harry says. He shoots Dearing again, in the chest this time. "I want him back."

Too shocked to scream, Dearing just stares at him. He dies while Harry is wondering whether to shoot him again.

It doesn't bring Eggsy back, but that night Harry sleeps more easily than he has in months.

****

After that, he starts to put his affairs in order.

He knows what he has to do now. It came to him the night he sat up in vigil for Merlin, too devastated to even cry. Too much pain will drive a man insane, but Harry doesn't think he's reached that point. Not yet, anyway.

Or maybe he did long ago. How would he even know?

All his research into mortality and the supernatural agree on one thing. There is a certain power in select things: dates, places, blood. Collect enough of these things and it might just be possible to get someone's attention.

But first there are things to be done. Specifically, things of a legal nature. He has no heir, especially now that Eggsy and Daisy are dead, but he makes provisions for them, anyway. He doesn't know what will happen when the world gets put back to rights; he needs to prepare for every possible outcome.

Mr. Pickle is buried one night in the back garden, not far from where he and Eggsy had lunch on that last Sunday they ever had together. He doesn't need the dog anymore to remind him of the high cost of this life he chose for himself so long ago.

The rest comes easier. Possessions sold or given to charity. A letter to Arthur. A letter to his younger brother in New Zealand, long since estranged and rarely thought of. A letter to his solicitor.

And then it's the morning of October 18th. Harry wakes up and right away the pertinent facts make themselves known. It's Tuesday. It's cloudy. And this is the last day he will ever spend in this horrible world.

Tonight he gets Eggsy back.

****

The night is clear and calm, unlike last year. It's still chilly, though, and Harry is grateful for the warmth of his black coat.

He doesn't encounter anyone as he walks through the cemetery. Not that he expected to. He's not supposed to be here at this hour either, of course, but he would be a pretty poor Kingsman if he let a simple locked gate keep him out.

It's the first time he's been to Eggsy's grave since the funeral. He was worried he might get lost, but the map he studied beforehand proves to be accurate. It's a good thing, too, because he remembers nothing of this place.

That's not surprising, though. He's missing a lot of time from that week Eggsy died, entire blocks of time that simply don't exist in his memory. If there were just one or two incidents he might think Merlin had used an amnesia dart on him. But the memory loss extends well past the time when Merlin stayed at his house, so he knows it's more likely just a result of the emotional shock of losing Eggsy. All things considered, he's fine with that. He doesn't exactly _want_ to remember those days.

He follows the curving path through the cemetery. He's wearing the navy pinstriped suit he had on when he first met Eggsy. Not the same one, of course, because that suit ended up in a hospital rubbish bin in Kentucky. But with the exception of the fabric itself, the suit is identical. Beneath his shirt, the gold wedding band hangs from Eggsy's chain. He used the last of Eggsy's aftershave tonight, having saved it specially for this occasion; when he was done he put the empty bottle back on the counter beside the sink, unable to bring himself to throw it away. 

Despite the temperature, the night is almost pretty. For a moment he pauses to wonder if that's only because it's the last night he intends to spend in this messed up world, but no. It really _is_ pretty with all the stars glittering up above.

Maybe whoever is out there, whoever wouldn't let Eggsy talk to him in his dreams, maybe they arranged this. The thought obscurely pleases him. After a year of living in this world full of endless heartbreak and grief, where everything is wrong but he's the only one who knows, something is at last going right.

He veers off the path and walks on the grass now, stepping carefully between gravestones. Some of them are so old the engraving has been worn off. Others are newer, more expensive; one has a death date of just two weeks ago.

Eggsy's headstone is just how he remembers it, but the grave itself shows signs of neglect. He isn't surprised. There is no one left who might come out here and visit, no one to stoop down and brush away the fallen leaves, like Harry does now. He pulls a few weeds from the surrounding grass, then he stands up, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes his hands.

He folds the handkerchief and puts it back in his pocket. For a while he just stands there, looking down at the grave. The dates on the stone are easily visible in the moonlight. Close together. Too close – Eggsy was far too young to die.

But then, nothing happened for them the way it should. They only had four months together. Four months, one of which he had spent half of in Kentucky, and the other half still recovering from Valentine's bullet. Looking back on it now, Harry can hardly believe the time they had was so short. Back then every day had been a new discovery, every morning a revelation, every night a joy. He had thought they had years still ahead of them before his age became a problem, years they could use to make a life together.

He won't live to see tomorrow, he knows, but he can accept that. He still had those four months with Eggsy. It's enough. It's four more months than he ever expected, after all.

For a moment that thought gives him chills. What if he used up his miracle that day in Kentucky? What if those four months are it? What if there is no bringing Eggsy back, no changing things?

But he cannot believe that to be true. Eggsy told him he could change it. And he believes in Eggsy.

His watch emits a soft chime, alerting him to the time. Midnight has arrived. It is now October 19th, the day Eggsy died.

Harry reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the leather sheath. He draws the knife, turning it slightly so moonlight glints off the blade. It's Eggsy's, of course, the one he kept in his nightstand drawer in the event of an attacker entering their house. He was good with a blade, quick in a knife fight, second in his class only to Roxy.

"I know you're there," he says calmly. "I know you can hear me."

The cemetery remains silent and still, but Harry is undeterred. "I understand now," he says. "I know why this world feels so wrong. Why I'm the only one who can feel it." He takes a deep breath. "It's because I don't belong here."

Overhead, the moon still shines bright, but the light falling on Eggsy's headstone seems dimmer now. As though a shadow has been cast over it.

"I'm ready to make it right," Harry says. He is rather embarrassed to say his next words, but he doesn't hesitate. Too much is at stake for him to worry about his pride right now. "I've come to this place of earth and bone, on the day he died. And now I bring you blood."

He slashes the knife across the back of his wrist. It hurts, but he doesn't flinch. He turns his hand over so the blood can run freely and drop onto Eggsy's grave.

Years of being a spy have attuned Harry's senses; he knows when he is being watched. He sheathes the bloody knife and slides it back in his pocket. He looks down to do it, a deliberate gesture that narrows his focus to those simple things: the knife, the coat pocket, his bleeding hand.

When he looks up, they are standing there.

They look human, but he knows right away that they are not, not even remotely. No human could have snuck up on him, especially not on this night. Their faces are in shadow and the edges of their forms blend into the night so it's impossible to tell what they are wearing. One is slightly shorter than the other. It's the only way to tell them apart.

He should be frightened of them, he supposes. But they hold no fear for him. Their power over him comes from a far more insidious emotion: hope.

"I'm ready to go back," he tells them. "I'm ready to put things right."

The two figures do not speak. They simply stand there and look at him.

"I only want one thing in return," Harry says.

He can feel their surprise, and their anger. Whoever they are –- whatever they are –- they are surely not used to anyone talking to them in this manner. Begging and pleading, yes. But not this calm request that is almost a demand.

"I want twenty-four hours," Harry says. "Twenty-four hours before it happens. To spend with him."

He can accept his death, will even do so gladly if it means Eggsy and Merlin and Roxy and little Daisy get to live in return. But more than that, all he wants is to see Eggsy again. And not just in that split second before the gunshot.

One day. That's all he asks. A day and a night to spend with Eggsy. 

It will be enough.

The two figures exchange a look. Possibly they are communicating with each other. He wonders if they are grateful that he is putting the world right, if the _wrongness_ that bleeds through with every passing minute affects them, too.

The shorter of the two figures raises a hand. Its silhouette changes when it does. A robed sleeve falls back. Beneath the thick fabric, though, there is nothing. No flesh, no bone, nothing but a horrifying, vast emptiness.

"Thank you," Harry says before his throat locks up in terror. He is, after all, still a gentleman.

For one moment longer he sees the cemetery, the marble of Eggsy's headstone, those dreadful dates. A sudden gust of wind buffets him, and it is cold, colder than any winter, colder than any place on Earth could ever be. He shuts his eyes against it and –-

****

\-- and --

"Ain't you excited?" Eggsy asks.

Harry's eyes snap open.

Eggsy sits across from him, hair tossed about by the wind, eyes alight with enthusiasm. He looks somewhat chilled by the falling temperature; his cheeks and the tip of his nose are flushed. There is a small smudge on his jaw -- a spot he missed while he was shaving this morning -- and crumbs on his T-shirt.

He has never been more beautiful.

Harry stares at him. Before he knows that he means to do it, he makes a sound of utter longing. Tears blind him, first blurring Eggsy in his sight, then obscuring him altogether.

A gust of wind rattles their lunch spread. Dimly he sees his napkin take wing, a fluttering white rag set against the afternoon sky. "Shit!" Eggsy exclaims. He springs up and chases after it.

Almost overcome with emotion, Harry covers his eyes with a shaking hand. Eggsy. Oh God. Eggsy is here. Alive.

Eggsy is alive.

He did it. He can change it all. He can save Eggsy, save the world while he's at it, too.

"Hey!" Eggsy sounds alarmed, and much closer now. "Harry? You okay?"

He wipes at his eyes and drops his hand. And yes, Eggsy is standing right there, holding Harry's wayward napkin. His eyes are a brilliant blue today, matching the sky overhead.

Part of him wants to drop his head to the table and weep. The rest of him is singing with joy and hope and love, oh so much love. It's all he can do not to reach out and touch Eggsy, just to make sure, be _really_ sure, that he's there.

He's been back in Eggsy's presence for less than five minutes, and already he feels more alive than he did for the entire year that came before this moment.

"Yes," he says hoarsely. He has to clear his throat before he can continue. "It was the wind. I got some dust in my eyes. I'm fine." He smiles, tremulous at first, then with growing happiness. Eggsy is here with him, safe and alive.

He has his twenty-four hours. 

And he just can't help himself. He stands up, reaches out and pulls Eggsy into a fierce embrace.

Eggsy makes a startled little _urk_ noise, but hugs him back. "You sure you're okay?"

Harry just nods. He can't speak. It's been a year since he was able to do this, since he was able to hold Eggsy close. The feel of him in his arms again is overwhelming. He had forgotten this, the way Eggsy melts against him when they hold each other. He had forgotten the warmth and strength of Eggsy's body, the scent that is his and his alone, the way Eggsy's arms encircle him, one hand pressed to his back, the other just above his waist.

He gives himself one moment to squeeze his eyes shut and force the tears back, but one moment only. He has to pull himself together. He can't do anything to alert Eggsy that today is any different from a regular Sunday.

"I'm fine," he says again. There's a quiver in his voice at first, but he manages to smooth it out quickly enough. "Can't an old man hug his partner on the day before their first mission together?"

Eggsy steps back, but not very far; Harry still has his arms around him. He's not sure if he will ever be able to let go. "So you _are_ excited about tomorrow."

Harry makes himself smile. "I've thought of nothing else all --" _(all year but it's over, it's finally over, I did it, you said I could change it and I will, I swear to you I will)_ "--week long."

Eggsy laughs. The sound unlocks something in Harry's chest, and warmth floods through him. He breathes in deep for the first time in months. He's even able to let go of Eggsy.

Another sharp gust of wind blasts at them. It cuts through Harry, reminding him of the bone-chilling cold that emanated from those shadowy figures in the graveyard. He shudders.

"Fuck, it's freezing," Eggsy says. "Whose idea was this, anyway?" He winks at Harry.

It is growing quite cold out. It will get colder and windier all day and finally start to rain tonight. It's going to rain for the next two days, in fact, although it will stop in time for the funeral. 

But though it may be cold, the day feels right. For the first time since Harry felt it descend upon him on that trip to Michelle Unwin's house, that sense of _wrong_ is gone. Already he has changed things.

He shivers again and only then realizes that he's not wearing his coat anymore. Or his suit. And...his hand, where there is no cut and no blood, flies upward, grabbing at his jumper.

The engagement ring is gone, too. So is the chain that Eggsy wore for so many years.

Are they lying in a dark cemetery right now? Would anyone walking by see the glint of moonlight on gold and pick it up?

Does that cemetery even exist anymore?

"Let's go in," Eggsy says as he grabs for his napkin.

"Yes," Harry says.

****

In contrast to the rising weather, the house is delightfully warm. Harry walks inside and immediately stops to look -- and there it is. Eggsy's black hoodie, draped across the back of the couch. Right where it will be tomorrow afternoon when he comes in alone for the first time in what will be the most painful year of his life.

Except that won't happen now. He's going to change things. He's going to make them right.

"Wanna save this?" Eggsy holds out a dish with some food in it. There's not much left, not even enough to make a lunch from.

"No," Harry says.

Eggsy's mug, that gift from Roxy with the cracked handle, is on the kitchen counter. By this evening it will have migrated to the coffee table in the living room. Those awful winged trainers are on his feet, where they will stay until tonight, when he'll kick them off as they climb the stairs together, already halfway undressed.

The thought makes Harry's blood quicken. It's been a year since he experienced any sexual pleasure that didn't come from his own hand. And even then there was never any real enjoyment in the act. It was release only, an attempt to relax, to forget even for a few moments how terribly wrong the world was.

For a moment he considers not waiting. There is no script here, and he needn't follow it even if there were. He can walk over there right now and kiss Eggsy. He can put his arms around Eggsy and taste him. He can smile when Eggsy makes a lewd comment about eating dessert, and take him upstairs.

But want and reality are two very different things, as he knows all too well. He is quite aware of what he is capable of at his age. If he takes Eggsy upstairs now, that will be it for the day. And that is not what he wants.

If this is to be his last night ever with Eggsy, he means to make it count.

It doesn't mean, though, that he can't touch.

Eggsy stands at the sink, rinsing their lunch dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Harry walks over to him, sets a hand on Eggsy's chin, and gently turns his head. Eggsy looks up at him questioningly, and Harry kisses him.

Memory comes flooding back, all those things he had forgotten under the weight of his long solitude. The feel of Eggsy's lips, the heat of Eggsy's breath, the way Eggsy's hands rise to hold his arms.

It's the sweetest kiss he's ever known.

Unfortunately it's not destined to last long. He feels the quiver in his lip at the same time tears burn his eyes. He pulls back and turns away quickly, before Eggsy can see. "Excuse me," he murmurs.

He makes it all the way upstairs before he can't hold back the wretched sobs a moment longer. He closes the bathroom door, buries his face in a towel, and lets go.

Some of it is grief, tears he hasn't let himself shed in months because he needed to stop, he needed to be strong. Some of it is sheer relief, because no matter what happens tomorrow, he's at least escaped the hell of that other world, where everything was wrong and everyone around him died and left him alone. And some of it is bright joy at seeing Eggsy again, getting to touch him, just getting to _be_ with him.

Except it won't last. He can hardly breathe then for the bitter injustice of it. He got his wish, and for what? He gets another day to spend with Eggsy, but ultimately it doesn't matter. He's going to die tomorrow. All they have, all they were ever going to get, was four months together.

He shouldn't have asked for this, he sees that now. This is too cruel. To get Eggsy back but then lose him again forever. Far better to have come back in the moments just before that fatal gunshot. At least then it would have been over with quickly. All he's done now is prolong the agony.

And yet, he's here. With Eggsy. A very much safe and alive Eggsy. Who will still be alive at this time tomorrow.

He has to remember that. He has to think about Eggsy. Eggsy who is alive and well, and waiting on him to come back downstairs. And every minute Harry wastes in selfish pain is one more minute lost forever.

He washes his face and makes sure his eyes aren't red or puffy before he goes back downstairs.

He's ready to spend his last day ever with Eggsy.

****

An international spy agency doesn't exactly keep regular business hours, but even so, Sundays tend to be fairly quiet. This suits Harry perfectly well. He enjoys cooking a big Sunday lunch, attempting the crossword, and finding reasons to put off doing the cleaning. Eggsy usually plays video games or visits his mum and sister, before at last giving in and starting a load of laundry. Sundays are generally calm and domestic, and they happen to be Harry's favorite day of the week.

Harry doesn't really remember how they spent that last Sunday, the last one they would ever get. It doesn't matter. He knows how he wants to spend this one.

So when Eggsy turns on his game, Harry says, "Want a partner?"

Eggsy looks back at him in surprise. "Serious?"

Harry's heart breaks a little at the pleased happiness in Eggsy's eyes. All his old guilt comes raging back, reminding him that he didn't do this nearly often enough before. Such a simple thing, and yet it means the world to Eggsy.

"Of course," he says. He holds out his hand for the controller.

The game involves gunning down a lot of zombies and other creatures of the undead. It's complete nonsense, but Eggsy loves it, and because Harry loves _him_ , he's quite willing to spend a couple hours mindlessly pressing buttons.

They sit together on the couch, Eggsy laughing and bumping his shoulder. When they earn an achievement in the game, Eggsy leans in and they share a kiss as their own private reward. And when they defeat a rather ugly, difficult creature on only their third try, Eggsy throws both arms in the air. "Yesss!" he exults. "Fuck yeah!"

Harry smiles. He feels quite proud, too, which is utterly ridiculous. But there is nothing ridiculous about the gleeful delight in Eggsy's eyes. And there is nothing remotely comical about the arm Eggsy loops about his shoulders. "Look at us," he grins. "Unfuckingstoppable."

Until tomorrow afternoon, at any rate. Harry's throat clenches; to hide it, he gives Eggsy a kiss. "Indeed we are."

Eggsy sets the game controller down. "Guess I better get some laundry started."

Yes, that's right, Harry thinks. Next Eggsy will do the laundry while he dusts.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" he asks. "Or we could stay in and watch a film, if you'd rather."

Eggsy is almost to the stairs, heading up for the laundry basket. Now he stops and looks back at Harry. "You ain't gonna do your cleaning?"

"It can wait," Harry says.

Eggsy gazes at him for a moment, probably trying to suss out what is going on. Once more Harry remembers that he mustn't act any different than usual. If Eggsy is too wary, he will be too quick to act tomorrow, and there won't be enough time to save him.

"It was only a thought," he says, trying to sound casual.

"Nah, it's good," Eggsy says. He nods. "We can go out. I could do with an ice cream, anyway."

"After that huge lunch?" Harry says.

Eggsy pats his stomach. "There's always room for ice cream, love." He grins. "Just let me get the wash started, yeah?"

Thirty minutes later they're walking through Kensington Gardens. The wind is still strong, and quite chilly now. Harry buttons up his warm black coat and gives up on worrying about his appearance; he knows his hair is a mess and he doesn't care.

Beside him, Eggsy munches happily on his ice cream, apparently oblivious to the falling temperature. He's got his black hoodie on, but it's unzipped. If he feels the cold, it clearly doesn't bother him.

Harry very much hopes he will remember this later. After the initial shock of grief passes, he hopes the memory of this day will make Eggsy smile, even just a little.

They find a bench and sit down so Eggsy can finish his ice cream. His cheeks are a rosy red, his eyes a vivid blue. He catches Harry looking at him and offers the bowl up. "Want some?"

"Yes, all right," Harry says.

He takes the paper bowl from Eggsy's hand. Their fingers brush, chilled from the wind. Even that brief touch is enough to make Harry's breath catch. He has to stop himself from taking Eggsy's hand, from resting his palm on Eggsy's face. He's been without Eggsy's touch for so long, it takes everything he has to remember that he must behave as he always would.

The ice cream is pistachio, Eggsy's favorite. It's too sweet for Harry's liking, but he has some anyway. The spoon is sticky where Eggsy was holding it; he'll need to wash his hands when they get back to the house.

"Thank you," he says as he hands the bowl back.

What he means is, _I love you. I love you. I love you._

Eggsy finishes his ice cream and tosses the bowl and spoon in the nearest bin. By then it's late enough in the afternoon that it's starting to get dark out. They don't even have to discuss it; by unspoken consent, they set out for home.

Unless required for a mission, Harry is normally not very keen on public displays of affection. He's not big on holding hands, and he outright frowns on anything greater than a kiss. But today is different. Today is the last day he will ever get to walk through the park with Eggsy. There will never be another chance to drift a little closer, smile at him when their hands brush together, and then take his hand.

Eggsy is surprised, but then he gets that pleased expression on his face, the way he did when Harry offered to play his game with him. The color on his cheeks then isn't all due to the weather, and Harry's heart lurches in his chest.

They walk together through the advancing gloom. Eggsy's hand fits perfectly with his own, and Harry presses his fingers tight.

An occasional raindrop warns of the oncoming tide. The sky hangs ominously low, the grey clouds turned into a rolling ceiling that looks close enough to touch. The wind grabs at their clothes and makes a mess of their hair. It's cold out, and getting colder.

Warm and content, Harry walks along with Eggsy.

****

When they get home, Eggsy hangs up his black hoodie instead of throwing it carelessly across the back of the couch. Harry stands just inside the front door and stares at this uncharacteristic behavior. He feels an absurd tendril of panic coil in his chest. The hoodie should be on the couch. That's where it belongs.

Oblivious to any of this, Eggsy disappears in the laundry room. Harry shuts his eyes for a brief moment, then takes his coat off and forces himself to take a deep breath.

They've reached that part of the day he's been dreading: when they must talk about tomorrow's mission.

There is no way he can tell Eggsy the truth. Eggsy would never believe him if he did. It's too fantastic, this tale of fate and death and shadowy figures in the graveyard of a world gone horribly wrong. Then there is the worry that if he tells, they will take it back. Take _him_ back to that midnight grave as punishment.

More worrying is the thought of what Eggsy will do if he knows what to expect at Dearing's house tomorrow. He can already hear it: _It'll be okay. I know what to do now. We got this, Harry. Don't you worry about it._ All said with a smile meant to reassure him and make him believe that everything will be all right. And all of it a lie.

As if Eggsy would ever let him die.

No, he knows exactly what will happen if he tells Eggsy the truth. Eggsy will make damn certain that he isn't shot. And there's only one way to do that. And then they will be right back where it all started, with Eggsy falling backward onto the wet pavement with a bullet hole in his forehead.

Harry shudders. No. Not that. Never again.

In the laundry room, the dryer starts up. Eggsy will be back any second now. Harry hurries into the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

"Are you gonna want dinner?" Eggsy asks from behind him.

"I don't think so," Harry says honestly. Last year on this day they made a light meal, neither of them wanting to eat much after the big lunch they had. But he knows he won't be able to eat a thing tonight; he's too wound up, too full of conflicting anxieties.

"Me either," Eggsy says. "I prolly shouldn't'a had that ice cream."

"There is nothing wrong with the occasional treat," Harry says, and then winces. He sounds so stiff and prissy. He hates that about himself sometimes.

"You're right," Eggsy says, and reaches up to ruffle Harry's hair.

Instinctively Harry ducks, but he must admit that he doesn't really try that hard. The windy day has made a complete mess of his hair and he knows it. Normally upon coming back home he would do his best to tame it again, but today he simply can't deny Eggsy the delight of toying with the unruly curls he so despises.

"I was thinking," he says. "We should discuss our mission tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay," Eggsy says. He leans up against the kitchen counter and smirks. "I been lookin' forward to this for a long time."

"As have I," Harry says.

_You have no idea, my dear._

****

It starts to rain as they sit at the dining room table with their tea. It's dark out by now; night comes early at this time of year. Harry sees that and his chest grows tight. Time is slipping away from him. He wants to make this day last forever, this last day he will ever have, but there is no slowing the relentless march of time, and there is no stopping it.

He has to be very careful now. He can't give away that he knows what will happen tomorrow. And yet there's a certain irony to the fact that he only knows the broad strokes; the general outcome of their doomed mission. As to the details, he remembers none of them.

Once he had figured out what he meant to do and started putting his affairs in order, he had tried to watch the video recorded from his glasses on the day of the Dearing mission. He had been unable to access it, though. All video files are available on the Kingsman network for any agent to review at any time. All files except the ones that contain footage of an agent's death. Those are locked away under tight security; only Merlin and Arthur have access to them.

So he wasn't able to watch the video of the firefight. He can't remember how many men assault them and when and how they die. In the absence of concrete information, he is left with only a vague plan and the conviction that two things must happen tomorrow. First and foremost, they must kill every single person on that driveway. But since he suspects fate –- or those shadowy figures in the graveyard -– won't allow it to be that easy, that leaves him only one other means of seeing things through. He must make sure he and Eggsy end up on the same side of the Kingsman car when they run to it for shelter. That way when the not-dead-yet guard rises and aims his gun at them, Harry can shove Eggsy out of the way and take the bullet he was always meant to.

They start by going over all of Eggsy's meetings with Dearing up until this point, then confirm with Kingsman that the car is waiting for them in Brixton. As they start to discuss what to say to Dearing, Eggsy gets up and wanders into the kitchen. "Keep going," he says. "I'm listening."

"What are you doing?" Harry asks.

Eggsy shrugs as he opens the refrigerator door. "Just gettin' a snack." As he passes by, he reaches out to tweak one of Harry's curls, and winks.

Harry frowns. He needs Eggsy's full attention for this.

To speed things along, he joins Eggsy in the kitchen. They make sandwiches and Eggsy grabs a packet of crisps from the cupboard. They carry everything back out into the dining room, and Eggsy collapses into his chair. "Sorry," he says. "Guess I was hungrier than I thought."

Harry isn't cross. How could he be? He treasures every moment of this day.

Eggsy starts eating. Harry looks down at his sandwich and is surprised to discover that he is actually hungry. For months he's subsisted on take-out and hasty meals grabbed at whatever shop or restaurant happens to be closest. He lost weight after Eggsy's death and never gained it back again. Just before they left for the park, he went to the bathroom and gazed at his own reflection for some time in the mirror. It was a relief to realize that he hadn't made the journey here in any physical sense; his body is just the way it was one year ago, before the ravages of grief, before he was literally able to stand in the open during a gunfight and not worry about being shot.

The mission with Dearing is set aside for a while. Harry finishes his sandwich and helps himself to some of Eggsy's crisps. He remembers meals with Eggsy, dinners in posh restaurants where Eggsy must have surely been somewhat intimidated, and yet he never let on. Lunches outside in the garden, lazy Saturday morning breakfasts, the smell of bacon heavy in the air. Even the boring ones, the mundane lunches in the Kingsman dining room, or take-out grabbed on the way home after a late day at the shop all seem special now.

He wishes their last meal together could be something memorable, but he has the comfort of knowing that tomorrow morning he gets to make breakfast for Eggsy. And this time around he can get an earlier start – he knows he won't sleep tonight – and truly make it something to remember.

At last the dishes are cleared away and they resume discussing the mission. It's raining harder now, rain striking the front windows of the house. Harry looks at Eggsy and says, "If Dearing is going to discover our little trick, it will take him a little while. We may be away from the house by then. But if we're not --"

Eggsy nods. He studies the aerial photograph of Dearing's house. "Probably try to stop us from driving off."

"Yes," Harry says. His heart is beating faster; he keeps seeing the way Eggsy fell, that dark hole in his forehead. "If that happens, we must be quick." He has to look away. "Shoot to kill, Eggsy. Don't hesitate. And don't leave any of them alive."

There is a slight silence before Eggsy says, "Yeah."

Harry can't bring himself to look at him just yet. He knows it's odd, that he's asking a lot. Normally he tries hard to keep civilian casualties to an absolute minimum. Even men like Dearing's security force are not to be killed if at all possible, merely dealt with swiftly and efficiently.

But not tomorrow. Tomorrow they all have to die. There can be no exceptions.

"I am very serious," he says. He steels himself before looking Eggsy in the eye. "Even one of them surviving could prevent us from finishing our mission."

Eggsy nods again, but he doesn't look happy about it. "You make it sound like we're gonna fuck it up and have to shoot our way out. Come on! It'll be fine."

"I very much hope so," Harry says, and tries not to strangle on the words.

"It's fine," Eggsy says. "It's you and me, Galahad and Gawain. Our first mission. First of _many_. We're gonna take Kingsman to a whole new level." He grins.

"Yes, well," Harry says. He can barely hear himself through the roaring in his ears. The hole is back on Eggsy's forehead, perfectly round. There is hardly any blood. "First we have to get through tomorrow."

"We will," Eggsy says with all the confidence of youth. "It's gonna be fuckin' fabulous." He pushes his chair back and stands up. "Be right back."

Harry watches him go. He waits for the bathroom door to shut before dropping his head in his hands.

He breathes in deep through his nose, fighting to get himself under control. He cannot afford to fuck this up. Eggsy is fine. Perfectly fine. And he's going to continue being fine, because tomorrow will be different. 

_The only one dying tomorrow is me._

It will be hard on Eggsy, he knows that. Eggsy will blame himself and feel guilty, a burden he will most likely bear all his life. But Eggsy is young and resilient, and he will have the love and support of his friends and family to help him cope with the grief and pain of loss. In time he may even find love again.

Harry can only hope.

Eggsy returns to the dining room and slouches in his chair. "So where were we?"

They go over it all again, and about halfway through, Eggsy suddenly shifts in his chair. He looks up at Harry with a sideways grin. "This turning you on as much as it is me?"

Last year the answer was a surprising yes. Today it is the exact opposite. But this is the last night they will ever have together, his last chance to make Eggsy feel loved. So Harry says, "Are you saying you want to stop for the night?"

Eggsy deliberately walks right into it, his eyes alight with love and mischief. "I'm sayin' I think we should get started. 'Cause I know you been thinkin' about it. Me in those tailored trousers, showing off the curve of me arse. You're gonna make sure you're behind me when we go down the steps at Dearing's place."

The mention of Dearing sends a chill through him, but Harry refuses to let it show. "Perhaps," he murmurs.

"And I'm thinkin' 'bout you," Eggsy says. "The way you're gonna smooth down your tie and activate the transmitter. Those beautiful hands. I'm thinkin' they should be on me."

"I think so too," Harry says. He's waited long enough to touch Eggsy.

There is no more talk about the mission. He stands up and moves around the table. Eggsy backs away, grinning playfully, and doesn't let him catch up until just before the stairs. There he finally manages to pull Eggsy in for a burning kiss.

Into that kiss Harry pours all his love for Eggsy. He slides one hand up to cradle Eggsy's face, feeling the faint rasp of whiskers along his jawline and cheek. Eggsy's mouth opens sweetly to his tongue, Eggsy's hands come up to clutch at his arms.

 _I love you_ , Harry thinks. For Eggsy he has defied the unknown and dared to remake the world. For Eggsy he would do anything.

Together they climb the stairs, shedding jumpers and undoing buttons. Eggsy kicks off his trainers and leaves them forgotten on the landing. Harry sees the shoes lying there and he shivers, then Eggsy distracts him by licking at his bottom lip and Harry presses him against the wall and kisses him until they're both breathless.

They move down the hall, pulling at each other's clothing. The moment Eggsy's top half is bared, Harry is touching him all over. He can't get enough of the feel of Eggsy's skin, the light dusting of hair on his chest, the moles sprinkled across his back. He's been so long without this that he forgot how it felt to touch Eggsy, how beautifully responsive Eggsy is beneath his hands.

In return Eggsy presses close, undoing his trousers and reaching inside. His hand is warm on Harry's cock as he strokes.

Harry groans. No one has touched him like this in a year, fingers wrapped around him, stroking with the rhythm he likes. It would be so easy now to just let Eggsy take him to completion, to let go and give in.

Instead, he bends Eggsy backward over the bed, leaning across him as they go, Eggsy's mouth on his, wet and hot. They shed the last of their clothes and then they're naked, finally pressed together.

Harry leans over him and kisses him. "My dearest," he sighs.

Eggsy's hands roam over his back. Harry kisses him again, then mouths at the line of his jaw. Stubble rasps beneath his tongue and makes his lips tingle.

He kisses a line down Eggsy's throat, feeling the steady beat of Eggsy's pulse. For a moment he hovers there, warming the spot with his breath before pressing his lips to it.

Another kiss on the ridge of Eggsy's collarbone, and he slides one hand between them to encircle Eggsy's cock. Eggsy makes a little noise at that, his hips bucking up and his hands clutching Harry's shoulders.

"I love you," Harry says. He strokes upward on Eggsy's cock as he closes his mouth about Eggsy's nipple.

The sounds Eggsy makes are utterly delightful. One hand tangles in Harry's hair, pulling just enough to make his scalp tingle and send blood rushing to his cock. He can't help himself from moving against Eggsy's thigh, keeping the same rhythm as he sucks Eggsy's nipple and strokes his cock.

"Fuck." Eggsy's breath comes faster; his eyes have gone a beautiful green.

Harry kisses and licks his way across Eggsy's chest, and on down his stomach. He breathes in deep of Eggsy's scent and savors the taste of Eggsy's skin. He is a starving man at a feast, overwhelmed with riches.

Lower he goes, shifting down on the bed. The angle is no good anymore so he lets go of Eggsy's cock so he can give himself a few strokes, twisting his wrist just so. He litters kisses all over the soft skin of Eggsy's belly, smiling to feel the muscles jump and quiver beneath him.

"Harry."

"Yes," he says, and takes Eggsy's cock in his mouth.

This too he had forgotten, the weight of Eggsy's cock on his tongue, the taste of him. He takes Eggsy in as far as he dares, then pulls slowly backward, his lips dragging warm down the length of Eggsy's cock.

Eggsy utters a deep groan. He grabs at the sheet with both hands. "Fuck, Harry."

"Yes?" He kisses Eggsy's cock, licks at the tip, then takes him deep again.

Eggsy thrusts a little, and Harry backs off, not wanting to choke and ruin it. He is more careful this time as he closes his mouth and sucks hard, timing it with the helpless movements of Eggsy's hips.

When he tastes the first hint of fluid from the tip of Eggsy's cock, he licks it away and then slowly pulls back.

His jaw aches a little but it's worth it to see the flush on Eggsy's pale skin and the lust in his eyes. "You are so beautiful," he sighs.

Eggsy reaches for him, and he goes willingly. He wants to look in Eggsy's eyes when he comes. He wants to remember this moment for all the time that is left to him.

They kiss again and Eggsy rolls into his side so they face each other. They fit together so well in spite of the height difference between them; they always have. Eggsy's hand closes over their cocks, holding them together. Harry wraps his longer fingers around Eggsy's, and they start to move.

Eggsy is much closer than he is; it's not long before the smooth rhythm he set starts to stutter. His hips jerk and his breath shivers along Harry's lips.

"I've got you," Harry breathes.

Eggsy's eyes close when he comes. Harry watches him and tries desperately to commit this moment to memory. No matter what happens tomorrow, at least he had tonight.

Eggsy rolls half on top of him, his come warm and sticky between them. Harry lets himself be pushed onto his back, and gazes up at Eggsy.

"Come for me, love," Eggsy says. His hand is warm and sure on Harry's cock, his mouth sweet and giving.

Harry holds him close, wishing he could eliminate every last bit of space between them. Everything else falls away then, and there is only Eggsy. He never knew it was possible to love someone this much. But he knows it now, and he is so grateful to Eggsy for showing him, for letting him ever feel it at all.

They move together, Eggsy's eyes locked on his. Harry kisses him and breathes his name when he comes, and thinks that he's never been so happy.

****

Overnight it continues to rain off and on. The wind calms and the temperature drops. It stays warm in the house, though; Harry has never skimped on the heating bill.

And Eggsy is warm beside him, soundly asleep.

There is no sleep for Harry, though. Long into the night he lies awake, listening to Eggsy's breathing. Shortly after Eggsy falls asleep, he eases out of bed and goes over to the window so he can open the drapes to allow some light into the room. Not enough to make it too bright to sleep, but enough so that he can see Eggsy's face.

Occasionally he reaches out to touch Eggsy. Not often, for fear of waking him. But sometimes he is powerless to resist the need to feel Eggsy's skin beneath his fingertips.

He still marvels over Eggsy being here at all.

He could sleep now, a year of nightmares and poor rest finally put behind him -- but he can't do it. There is no way he can give up even one minute with Eggsy.

He does consider writing Eggsy a letter, though. Something to explain himself, something for Eggsy to hold onto in his grief and know that it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could have done. But though he tries out various words in his head, they all sound the same. Too unbelievable, too much like a suicide note. It might be craven, but in the end he decides against it. Let his last words to Eggsy be the ones written in his skin tonight, and the ones he will speak tomorrow.

The night ticks away while Harry lies beside Eggsy and feels his heart break a little more with every passing hour. A day and a night he's been given, but it's not enough, it's not nearly enough. He thought he could be content with the time he was granted, but he should have known it would never suffice. _It's too soon, too soon. How can I ever leave you again?_

If it were within his power to make the night last forever, he would do it without hesitation. He could spend an eon listening to the soft sounds Eggsy makes in his sleep and watching the dim light play on his face. But eventually, as it must, the clock betrays him and he has to accept that it is truly Monday morning.

At once the pertinent facts are there. It is Monday, October 19th. It is raining. And he has a little over six hours to live. This is the day he saves Eggsy Unwin and the world.

He can accept that.

****

He stays in bed until the alarm goes off, not wanting to leave before he must. Reluctantly he sits up and looks down at Eggsy, who is still curled up in a ball, eyes squeezed shut against the inevitable. "Good morning, dearest," he says.

Eggsy whines in the back of his throat. 

"Time to get up," Harry says.

Eggsy whines again, this time at a higher pitch.

"Up, Gawain," he says, and he leans down to kiss Eggsy's cheek.

Eggsy cracks one eye open. "Do I haveta?"

More than anything he wishes he could say no. For half a heartbeat he even considers it. Not that staying in bed is a viable option, but just the general idea. What if something were to "accidentally" keep him and Eggsy from going to Paul Dearing's house today? What if they just simply didn't go?

But he knows the answer to that. If they don't go out to meet their scheduled fate, _it_ will find _them_. It will come in the form of a drunk driver behind a car, a fall down the stairs, a mugging in an alley. There is no avoiding it.

At least this way he is in control. This way he can stop it.

He gives Eggsy another kiss, this time a gentle press of his lips to one of Eggsy's closed eyelids. "I'll go make breakfast," he says.

Eggsy makes a piteous sound, but the corners of his mouth lift in a smile.

Harry gets up. He puts on his red dressing gown and pats Eggsy's blanket-covered ankle as he walks past. He has to make himself keep going; all he wants to do is turn back and crawl into bed beside Eggsy and gather him into his arms.

But he is a Kingsman, and he is here for one reason. That means subordinating his own wishes to his duty.

And right now duty says they have to get going.

****

He is quick in the shower, not wanting to waste any time. He gets dressed – Eggsy is just dragging himself out of bed – then heads downstairs before he can say or do anything too out of the ordinary. 

For a long moment he just stands there in the kitchen, too overwhelmed to even know how to begin this day. How exactly does one embark on the last day of their life?

He's frightened, Harry realizes. He's not afraid to die, no. After the nightmare of the past year, he knows there are far worse things than death.

He _is_ afraid of failing, though. Afraid that he will miss his chance, that Eggsy will wind up dead anyway. That it will have all been for nothing. That he is doomed to live it all over again, the world gone horribly wrong around him while the ripples from Eggsy's death spread ever outward, felling his friends and family one by one.

Slowly he gets moving. He opens cabinets, checks the fridge, and finally starts breakfast. Not a full English breakfast or even half of one; just eggs and toast along with a pot of fresh coffee. He is too anxious to eat anything himself, and he suspects Eggsy will be nervous too, although he will do a good job of hiding it. It is, after all, their first mission together.

Too late he realizes he should have done something special to mark the occasion. Rain-soaked flowers from the garden, perhaps. Or a pot of that spice tea Eggsy likes so much. He had meant to make it a memorable meal, and instead all he's done is serve up an ordinary breakfast.

There's nothing he can do about it now, though.

Eggsy thumps down the steps with comb marks in his hair. His suit is dark grey and just too big for him, clearly bought off the peg with new money. The sight of it sets Harry's teeth on edge; he dislikes it far more on Eggsy than he does himself. Over the years he's sometimes worn Kingsman suits deliberately designed to look ill-fitting, so he can play whatever role has been assigned to him for a mission. The irony is that those suits are even more exquisitely tailored than a regular one, needing to be off in the proportions, but not enough to hinder his movements.

"Smells good," Eggsy says. He walks forward, fiddling a little with his signet ring, sliding it up and down his finger.

The sight of it makes Harry think of that other ring. The ring lying in a graveyard now. The ring also currently in hiding at Roxy Morton's house, so he won't accidentally find it.

He should maybe say something. He would have to make it a joke, of course, but with a hidden grain of truth. Something to let Eggsy know that he would have said yes, if he had lived to be asked the question. It might lay any doubts to rest and give Eggsy some comfort in the weeks to come.

Then again it might just be a cruelty. Maybe it's better this way, the ring forever unseen, forever lost in the misty moonlight atop a cold grave.

Eggsy slides into his chair, the signet ring firmly in place now, and the moment is lost.

Harry has no appetite at all, but he makes himself eat some of the eggs and a slice of toast. He does better with the coffee, draining his cup without difficulty.

Normally time is not an issue; Harry is late to everything and everyone at Kingsman has come to expect it. But they are on a schedule today and even Harry has to stick to it. Miserably aware of how short time is, he carries his dishes into the kitchen. He rinses them under the tap, then puts them in the dishwasher.

He turns to go, then stops. He glances at Eggsy, still in the dining room, finishing up.

Quickly, before Eggsy catches him, Harry takes his coffee cup out of the dishwasher. He sets it on the kitchen counter beside the sink, where Eggsy will see it when he returns home later this afternoon, heartsick with grief. The sight of it might even be enough to start him crying, letting go of some of the pain.

Harry hopes so.

A clatter of cutlery alerts him to Eggsy's approach. "Finished?"

Eggsy takes one last swallow from his coffee cup. "Ready to go steal some money from a bad guy?" He winks.

Harry smiles. "Ready," he says.

****

The cab is waiting for them outside. Harry settles in his seat and does not look back at his house. He has no good-byes to say, no need for a last look. Any regret he felt at leaving the house behind was dealt with before he left it that last time, before going to the cemetery where Eggsy was buried. It's just a house now. It hasn't really been a home in a year.

Traffic is terrible, and the rain doesn't help. The drive out to Brixton takes nearly twice as long as it normally would, but to Harry it seems to go by in a flash. In no time at all the cab is dropping them off at the shabby car park where the Kingsman car awaits.

The car is a little too flash, a little too shiny, obviously bought with money made by illegal methods. Dearing thinks Eggsy lives in this area, so this is where they must begin. Financing terrorists is little more than a game to Dearing, but he does have _some_ common sense. Harry has no doubt that somewhere along the line, most likely where the Brixton road meets the A320, someone will start to follow them. With that in mind, they need to appear to have come from Brixton.

But first things first. He touches the bridge of his glasses, activating the feed. "Merlin."

"I'm here, Galahad."

It's only been a month since Merlin died, but the sound of his voice still nearly brings Harry to tears. 

"We're at the car park," he says. "Checking the vehicle now."

"Understood," Merlin replies. 

Harry hesitates then, but there is really nothing further to say, so he just gets to work. He already knows the car is safe, no bugs or bombs planted while it sat here overnight, but he goes through the motions, anyway. He's perfectly thorough, but his mind isn't on the work.

Their pistols are exactly where they should be, in the compartments hidden in the floor. And that poses a problem. When everything goes tits up at Dearing's, he and Eggsy will naturally separate, each going for their weapon. And that will put them on opposite sides of the car as they use it for shelter -- the one thing Harry is trying to avoid. 

But he can think of no logical reason why he should suggest putting both weapons in the same compartment. Not without arousing Eggsy's suspicions. So with deep reluctance, he pronounces that everything checks out.

Eggsy heads for the passenger door, but before he can get there, Harry sets a hand on his shoulder. Curious, Eggsy turns toward him, and Harry kisses him.

It's the last time he'll ever get to kiss Eggsy.

"What was that for?" Eggsy asks when they break apart.

"I wanted to," Harry says. He smiles, and he does not cry, and he does not touch Eggsy again. "I love you. I simply thought you should know."

Eggsy gives him a fond but exasperated shake of his head. "You're a right loony, you know that?" He grins. "And I love you, too."

He can't put it off any longer. He gets in the car and breathes out, trying to stay focused. He reaches for the glove box so he can retrieve the keys, and is appalled to realize his hand is shaking. To cover this unseemly lapse, he turns to Eggsy. "Would you like to drive us there?"

Eggsy's eyes light up. "Seriously?" Then a moment later his face falls. "I can't, though. Dearing thinks you work for me. You gotta be the chauffeur." He smiles. "Next time, though, yeah?"

Harry's throat closes up. "Next time," he murmurs.

He starts the car and pulls onto the road and this is it, the last trip he will ever make.

They ride in silence for a while. Harry keeps his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. There is a funny tightness in his chest, a pain that is very nearly physical.

"So," Eggsy says, and he leans in a little so he can put his hand on Harry's thigh. "I been working with Kay on that thing in Switzerland, you know?"

Yes, Harry knows. He thinks about Kay, a good agent who tried his best to carry out a plan even when it was unfeasible. Kay, who died because he went in there alone instead of having Eggsy at his back.

"Well, as much fun as that's been," Eggsy says, "this is a million times better." He grins and punctuates it with a squeeze of Harry's leg. "Gettin' to work with you. _Finally_."

Harry makes himself smile back, though it's one of the hardest things he's ever done. "I'm very glad."

Eggsy fiddles with the radio, but apparently can't find anything he likes, for he eventually sinks back against his seat. They continue on in silence. Harry holds the steering wheel tightly and is almost grateful for the rain and the traffic; they force him to keep his eyes on the road.

Right on schedule, a black car pulls out behind them as they make the turn onto the A320. Eggsy slouches down a little more and adjusts the side mirror so he – and Merlin, through the glasses – can keep an eye on the car.

It's the same vehicle that will block them in once they reach Dearing's house, parking between their own vehicle and the gate that will seal off their only exit. There are two men inside, both of them armed. Harry doesn't remember how they die or who shoots them, but he knows that neither one of them will survive this day.

The car with Dearing's security stays behind them the rest of the way; so does most of the traffic. By the time they reach Dearing's house in South Kensington, the rain has tapered off to a dreary mist. Harry pulls onto the long, curving driveway; the black car that's been tailing them does the same, although nobody gets out. Behind it, the black wrought iron gate slides closed.

It's just five minutes past noon, and Harry has less than half an hour to live.

He turns the engine off and looks over at Eggsy. "Whatever happens today," he says, "I'm very proud of you."

Eggsy doesn't say anything, but he sort of lights up from within.

There is nothing else to say. "Are you ready?" he asks.

Eggsy grins. "Let's go be spies together."

**** 

The meeting with Dearing goes smoothly. Too late it occurs to Harry that he should have found out how Dearing discovers their ruse. It might have been possible to change things, to allow them to get away safely.

But then again, most likely not. He was meant to die on this day. If they get away from Dearing, something else will come along to accomplish the deed. At least this way he knows what to expect. At least this way he can protect Eggsy and keep him alive.

Eggsy handles most of the conversation. Harry stands silently behind him, acting as the muscle, the bodyguard, the driver all in one. Whatever Eggsy needs him to be, he will do it.

When it comes time to make the transfer, Eggsy calmly recites the bank account number that Kingsman set up just for this purpose. Maybe the account isn't as airtight as they thought, maybe Dearing knows someone at the bank, maybe there is more than one thing that goes wrong and he will never know what tipped off Dearing anyway, so Harry lets it go.

He has other things to worry about.

"Looks good from here," Merlin says quietly. "Transfer is complete." He sounds smugly satisfied.

And that's the job done.

They follow Dearing's escort through the house, out the front door, and down the driveway. Harry's heart is pounding so hard it's all he can do to put one foot in front of the other. He wants to grab Eggsy's arm and run. He wants to throw his arms around Eggsy and kiss him one last time. But time has finally run out. The twenty-four hours he begged for are over.

A shout goes up behind them.

 _Kill them_ , Harry thinks desperately. _Kill them all._

When the fighting starts, though, he loses all sense of clarity. It's not quite the bloodlust that took over in that church in Kentucky, but it's close enough. He knows the same urgent need to put them all down, to end them before they can end him.

He runs for their car so he can retrieve his pistol, using the Rainmaker as a temporary shield until he reaches the greater safety of the car. He quickly ducks behind it, getting out of the line of fire, and knows a moment of despair when he sees Eggsy disappear around the other side of the vehicle. It has to be this way, and yet he hates it, he hates it. 

His hands move on their own. His aim never falters. Bullets impact his suit but don't harm him. Glass shatters around them, and still he keeps firing.

And then as suddenly as it began, it's all over. Men lie dead on the driveway, blood mixing with the rain puddles. Scarcely daring to breathe – and to hope – Harry slowly stands up.

The fatal shot came from somewhere up the driveway. He remembers that much. He holds the gun out, not aimed at anyone in particular, but ready to raise it again in an instant. He stares at each fallen body, waiting for signs of movement.

"Are you hurt?" he calls. He doesn't look away from the bodies as he edges his way around the car. Eggsy, he needs to be near Eggsy.

"I'm fine," Eggsy says. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees him stand up. He's so wired that at the sudden movement, he nearly swivels and aims the gun at Eggsy.

"You need to get out of there," Merlin says in his ear. "Dearing's got more men on the way."

He's nearly at Eggsy's side when Eggsy calls his name. "Harry!"

Behind him, oh fuck, _behind him!_ He starts to turn, already raising the gun, but he's too slow, he's not going to be fast enough. He sees the man on the driveway, one of the guards from the car that followed them here. He sees the rainwater glistening on the barrel of the man's gun. He sees the gun that was aimed at the back of his head suddenly jerk and aim itself at Eggsy.

There is no time to even think. Harry throws himself to his left.

The gunshots are horrifically loud.

He feels his shoulder impact with Eggsy. There is a moment of terrible, burning pain, and then he's down, flat on his back and staring up at the sky.

Rain falls on his face. It's cold lying there on the ground. This is what it feels like to die, then.

The cold deepens, creeps over him like a graveyard mist -- and in sudden horror he realizes that's exactly what it is.

He's gone back.

They loom over him, the two shadowy figures, one shorter than the other. To his right is Eggsy's headstone. Glinting in the moonlight is the gold ring on its chain, the ring Eggsy was going to marry him with. 

_No!_ Harry tries to shout. _You can't!_

For a moment the cemetery wavers around him and the darkness becomes not night but something else. Death, maybe. Then it all snaps back and the two figures are there again. They don't speak, not to him anyway, but he has the sense of a conversation happening just beyond his ability to hear.

They keep looking at him. And they are angry. 

"I did my duty," Harry says. It hurts to speak. He tries to move, to roll over and get up, and can't move a single muscle. All he can do is stare at them. "Now do yours. Save him."

They stare at him from beneath their cowls. Again he gets the sense that they are speaking. They are deciding his fate, he suddenly realizes, and a shudder wrenches through him that has nothing to do with the chill of this time and place. 

"Save him," Harry says again. Humility would no doubt serve him better, but he has never found that to be easy. "It's why we did this, isn't it?"

The cemetery blurs around him again. Pain knifes through him and he gasps aloud, unable to help it. Then the world solidifies once more.

"Please," Harry says. 

Moonlight shines on the gold ring lying lost and forgotten atop Eggsy's grave. He's cold, so cold.

The light swells, becoming brighter. Too bright -- he squints and turns his face away -- and oh it hurts, and he makes a faint sound and -- _it is done_ \--

\-- and for half a second he sees Eggsy staring down at him, blue eyes so worried, but it's too bright and he is so cold and wet and the pain in his head is too much and --

****

\-- and he wakes up. 

There's a single instant when he almost seems to remember something, a lingering echo of cold and dark, two figures of unspeakable power looking down at him. Then it's gone, the way most dreams vanish upon waking. 

Waking. What?

Harry opens his eyes.

The pertinent facts are slow to assemble themselves. He feels sluggish all over, his body leaden, his thoughts scattered. There is no pain, though, and eventually he realises this is because he has been given painkillers. Because he is in hospital.

Because he is alive.

The knowledge jolts through him, bringing with it a very welcome sharpening of his senses. He looks around and sees that he is not just in hospital, he is at Kingsman HQ. And Eggsy is sitting in the chair in the corner.

For a moment Harry can only stare. Eggsy is alive, very much alive. He's got his shoes off and both feet are on the chair, knees bent to his chest. His head is bowed, thumbs moving swiftly over his phone as he texts. His hair is a mess, obviously untouched since drying out from the rain. He's still in his suit, although the knot in his tie is loosened and there is blood on the white cuff of one sleeve.

"Eggsy." He manages the word on his first attempt.

Eggsy's head snaps up. His eyes are huge in his face. "Harry."

He's alive, he's alive, and Harry doesn't understand it, how can he still be here to see Eggsy. He should be dead. He was supposed to die out there in the rain.

And yet the world doesn't feel wrong. He doesn't have that horrible sensation of everything falling apart all around him.

Eggsy thrusts his phone in his pocket and hurries over. "Harry, oh my God."

At the first touch of Eggsy's hand on his, a shiver goes through him. There is no visible sign, no warning light or sound, but abruptly the world around him seems to _shift_ , a shock that leaves Harry breathless and dizzy. It's gone as swiftly as it came upon him, but in its wake he is almost gasping. He is overwhelmed with the sensation of _right_.

This is meant to be.

He can't comprehend it at first. It never occurred to him that he might survive. He had always thought he had to die in order to balance the scales. A life for a life, his death so Eggsy might live. And yet here he is.

Here they both are.

"I can't believe you," Eggsy says. "You fucking _idiot_." He leans over and presses a trembling kiss to Harry's lips. "Don't you ever do anything like that again."

He can't make that promise, because of course he will do it again. If there is ever a choice to be made, he will always choose Eggsy over himself.

"I got him," Eggsy says. "But he got you first." He brushes light fingertips over Harry's forehead, where, yes, there is another bandage. " 's just a graze, though. They said you'll be fine." He grimaces. "Might scar, though."

Harry doesn't care. Another scar is a small price to pay to have Eggsy here with him, alive. All things considered, he actually got off lightly.

He raises a hand so he can touch Eggsy's face. He still can scarcely believe that he gets to do this. He will get to touch Eggsy today, and tomorrow, and every other day.

But it's not just Eggsy whom he's saved. It's the entire world put right again. And yet he has to be sure. If the world is right now, if things are how they are meant to be, he may need to do nothing at all. But he can't take that chance. Too many lives depend on what happens next.

"Kay," he says. "You have to go to Switzerland with Kay."

Eggsy nods a little, clearly bemused. "Okay."

"And Merlin." Even in this brave new world, Merlin will still be sick. "He must see a doctor. Immediately."

Then Lancelot… But then Harry stops, because he can't recall how Lancelot died. He knows that she did, but not the when or the how. And Michelle, she was dead too, she must have been, but he can't remember that, either.

It's all fading, he realises. He remembers spending a year in increasing agony as the deaths mounted from Eggsy's absence in the world –- but it's all become distant. There is no more weight to the memories, and they no longer hurt. By this time tomorrow he won't remember any of it at all.

 _It's their gift to me_ , he thinks. _That's what they argued about. I put the world right again and one of them wanted to thank me and the other didn't care._

Then he frowns. He has no idea who "they" are, or why he should think such a thing.

"I think maybe you need to sleep," Eggsy says. He looks vaguely troubled, no doubt wondering why Harry is babbling on about Kay and Merlin at a time like this.

Eggsy will never know the truth of what happened. And Harry knows he will forget it all himself soon enough. He can't risk alerting Eggsy to anything now, not when he's so close to the end. "I'm fine," he says. "I'm just…tired."

"You don't hurt?" Eggsy asks anxiously. His gaze shifts upward, to the bandage across Harry's forehead.

"Not a bit," he says truthfully.

Eggsy looks back at him. "You knew, didn't you." It's not a question.

Harry just looks up at him. He doesn't know how to answer that, not without giving himself away.

"You was acting so weird, all that talk about killin' everyone and 'no matter what happens.' You knew, didn't you? That something like that was gonna happen."

"I had an idea, yes." Some parts of that horrible year might be faded and gone, but he can still remember with perfect clarity the way Eggsy looked when he fell with that bullet hole in his forehead. "Things rarely go as smoothly as they should."

Eggsy swallows hard, like he's fighting back tears. "Well, I'm glad you did," he says. "It made me extra cautious. So when I saw that guy start to move…" He shakes his head, and his eyes fill with tears anyway. "Fucking hell, Harry! _You pushed me out of the way!_ "

"I couldn't let them hurt you," Harry manages. It's all he can say before his throat closes up.

Eggsy hugs him then, so carefully, his head on Harry's chest. Harry wraps both arms around him and holds him as tightly as he dares.

 _Thank you_ , he thinks, although he's not really sure anymore who he's thanking.

_Thank you._

****

It's dark out when he gets home. The rain has momentarily stopped, and the city gleams wetly beneath the streetlights. It's an oddly beautiful sight, and Harry would almost linger outside to stare at it, except Eggsy bundles him quickly inside, practically clucking like a mother hen.

The house is just as they left it this morning. Eggsy turns a light on and ushers him further in. "Do you want something to drink? Something to eat?"

"No, thank you," Harry says. It's been a horribly long day, even taking into account the few hours he spent in HQ, unconscious from his second gunshot to the head in four months. By now the painkillers have worn off and his head aches atrociously. More than anything he just wants to sleep.

Eggsy hesitates, looking almost disappointed that he can't help. Then he nods. "Let's just go to bed, yeah?"

"That sounds heavenly," Harry says.

They climb the stairs together, moving much more slowly than they did last night, with Harry leaning on Eggsy more than he would like to admit. Halfway up, he spots Eggsy's winged trainers lying on the landing. For a moment he pauses, looking down at them. Something about the shoes nags at his memory, something already more than half-forgotten.

Then they've moved on, past the shoes, and the echo of memory slips his mind completely.

Eggsy fusses over him as he undresses and gets ready for bed. On any other night such behaviour would annoy Harry enormously. Tonight he accepts it as his due, simply grateful that they are both here to fuss and be fussed over.

The room spins gently around him as he climbs into bed. He pulls the blankets up and closes his eyes, willing everything to go still. The bed dips as Eggsy gets in beside him, then Eggsy's warm body is pressed up against his.

One year ago he lay here alone, only just beginning the painful journey that lay ahead. He can just remember it if he strains his memory, but that too is fading and nearly gone.

Eggsy kisses his cheek. "Get some sleep."

Harry looks over at him. In the dim light filtering in from outside, Eggsy's eyes are deep pools where a man might dive forever and never find the bottom. "Earlier today you wanted me to promise never to put myself in harm's way for you," he says. "I can't make that promise, nor will I lie to you and say the words anyway." He gives Eggsy a soft kiss. "But I can promise to love you forever."

Eggsy makes a sound that might be a laugh, might be him trying not to cry. "The things you say," he breathes. He kisses Harry back. "I love you, too. Forever."

He rolls away a little, just far enough so he can rest his head on Harry's shoulder. "And just so you know, I already told Arthur our next mission wouldn't be so dramatic. So don't you go makin' a liar outta me."

Harry smiles into the dark. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says.

Within moments he is fast asleep.

****

When he wakes, Eggsy is still lying next to him, sleeping peacefully. Harry gazes at him for a long moment as he slowly assembles the pertinent facts.

It's Tuesday. It's raining. And today is the first day of the rest of his life with Eggsy Unwin.


End file.
